Denouement
by Clever Lass
Summary: Based on the Kopit and Yeston Phantom film, that stars Charles Dance and Teri Polo. Picks up when Christine faints after seeing Erik's face. It's mostly fluff, but a tiny bit of plot has crept in. The fluff, though, remains its raison d'etre. COMPLETE.
1. The Raging Beast

_Author's Note: This is based on the televised version of the Kopit/Yeston "Phantom," which starred Charles Dance in the title role, along with Teri Polo, and some pretty faced-guy as the Raoul character (called "Philippe" in this film for some reason)._

_The story so far is that, though Christine and Philippe had been children together and have been reunited, Philippe is a womanizing lech who's had affairs with every single dancer in the chorus. Christine has been taking singing lessons from a mysteriously masked instructor (after Philippe asked Carlotta to teach her, and Carlotta refused) and has recently sung with great success at the bistro, amazing everyone and showing up Carlotta. That night she and Philippe ran off together and smooched a lot, but when Christine made her debut as Marguerite in "Faust," Carlotta sabotaged her and humiliated her on stage. Her masked teacher (guess who?) abducted her off the stage to his house below._

_Once there, she meets up with the former opera manager, Gerard Carriere (who is actually Erik's father) who tells her of Erik's past. She's already half in love with him, but her heart melts completely when she hears Erik's story. The next day Erik invites her on a picnic, where she begs him to remove his mask in the name of love. She says that she knows she can look at his face, because she loves him._

_With much trembling hesitation and fear, Erik takes his mask off. Christine faints in horror, and Erik runs off heartbroken and howling in agony. Christine wakes up and runs from Erik, and he catches her and locks her in a cage. It all goes downhill from there._

_This story picks up with her waking, and she behaves the way I wish she had in the movie. Warning: it's fluffy. Very, very fluffy. If you prefer angst, well... stop reading in the middle, then._

**Denouement**

_**Denouement: The events following the climax of a drama or novel in which such a resolution or clarification takes place. **_

Christine woke up, disoriented for a moment. She blinked, wondering where the music was coming from, and then she remembered. It was more of Erik's "magic."

Thinking of Erik made her gasp in horrified recollection. It had been his terrifying face that had caused her to faint in the first place! She had begged him to remove his mask, begged him in the name of love, and trembling, he had done so.

He had trusted her, trusted her love for him. He had been terrified of her reaction, but had done it anyway to please her.

And she had fainted.

Tears welled up in her eyes now, realizing how she must have made him feel. She had begged for his trust, and when he had finally bestowed it, she betrayed it. The thought made her feel ill now, and she glanced about to see where he had gone. Their picnic things were still out, but there was no trace of him.

Frowning, Christine gathered up the rest of the picnic and stuffed it all back into the basket. His hat, which had given him such a dashing appeal, lay trampled and broken-brimmed in the dust. She crammed it into the basket as well, and then stopped, listening.

She heard a crashing sound from off in the distance, and she followed it. Her slipper-clad feet made little noise on the stone floor, and she was able to get close enough to see what was making the noise without being heard herself.

It was Erik.

He was in a rage.

He was magnificent.

His loose white shirt billowed with his furious movements as he broke, threw, and smashed everything he could find. His black mask made him look like a vengeful demon, bent on destruction. As she watched, he pushed over the wardrobe in the room with a roar of enraged fury, and her hand flew to her mouth in shock.

Was this her gentle teacher? Her caring and devoted maestro? With a pang, she realized that her reaction to his face had turned him into this… this monster bent on wanton destruction. He bent over and picked up pieces of broken wardrobe, smashing them against his knee before tossing them aside.

Did she dare approach? Would he harm her?

Heart pounding, Christine watched him for another moment. Such force, such power—she hadn't known her kind, gentle maestro had this sort of passion pent up within him. It quickened her breathing and made her pulse race.

Not letting herself question her actions too much, Christine carefully set down the picnic basket and took a step forward. Then another, and another, until she was just a few scant feet away from him. He hadn't heard her yet; she took advantage of his brief pause while he looked for something else to break, and said his name.

He whirled around in shock and anger. He strode over to her, but even in his wrath he did not touch her. Voice dripping with scorn, he asked, "Come to finish me off, have you?"

Christine shook her head, eyes downcast. Instinctively knowing what she must do to calm him (for hadn't she seen the village dogs interacting with each other throughout her whole childhood?), she slowly sank to her knees before him. "Maestro, I am so sorry," she told him softly. Show the dominant dog your belly and he won't hurt you.

Something in her submissive posture and tone must have touched him even through all the layers of pain and ire that she had inflicted on him, and he sighed. "Sorry," he repeated dully.

"Yes, sir," she said. Hanging her head even further, she continued, "I can only imagine your pain, and I am deeply sorry that I hurt you."

He took a deep breath and slowly came to his knees in front of her. He reached out and, not quite touching her chin, lifted it so he could search her face.

Christine flushed red when she met his tormented eyes. A moment ago they had flashed in fury, but now showed only pain. Erik had beautiful eyes, she noticed: smoky grey, with flecks of clear white in them. They were shadowed at the moment, and she marvelled at how much emotion he could express from such little things as his eyes, the twist of his mouth, and the set of his shoulders. She could tell when the last of his anger left him, and he began weeping. He buried his masked face in his hands and crouched before her, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He tore off his angry black mask and threw it as hard as he could; Christine could see the edge of his usual white mask under it.

Breathing a guilty sigh of relief that he'd put it back on, she edged closer to him. "Maestro…" she breathed. She laid a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and when he did not shrug it off, she slid it around his neck and pulled him closer. "Erik," she whispered. It was the first time she had called him by name, and she was pleased by how natural it felt. "Erik, I am so sorry." His head had by this time come to rest on her shoulder, and she stroked his hair as she held him. She felt the ribbons holding his mask on and for just a moment she was tempted to tug them free.

She would accustom herself to that face! She must!

But at the last minute she realized that even if he did forgive her for making him take off his mask, he would never forgive her if she did it without his consent.

Slowly Erik's trembling hands came up to hold her in return. She could feel his hesitation, his trembling touch, and she rested her head against his hair and held him closer. "I don't know why you'd even want to be close to me now," she murmured. "Oh, Erik! Can you ever forgive me?"

He gave a sigh, a long, shuddering sound, as he began to gain control again. "Oh, Christine," he whispered. He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes.

She could not meet his gaze, and looked away in shame. "I wonder how you can stand to be near me now," she murmured, "after what I did."

Erik shook his head, the faintest of smiles quirking his lips for a moment. "I should have known better." He withdrew and rose gracefully. He extended a hesitant hand to help her up. He cleared his throat. "I should take you back up."

She nodded dully, accepting his help and standing up. "You want me to go. I don't blame you."

"No, it's—just that I've put you through enough already," he said. He opened his hand, but she didn't let go of his. She looked up into his eyes.

"Erik," she said, her voice a little unsteady but her tone extremely determined, "I swear to you: someday I will look at your face with love."

"Christine," he said, his voice weary. "Christine, please don't make promises you can't keep. I should have known better than to believe… that _anyone_…"

"No, Erik," she cut in, still resolute. "I will keep this one. I swear it."

He smiled sadly, clasping her hand. "Thank you, my dear. If nothing else, I do appreciate the sentiment." He cleared his throat. "Come, we must be off. They must be worried about you."

They walked a while in silence. Erik had tried to release her hand, but she stubbornly held on. Finally he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and covered it with his other hand as they walked.

Christine couldn't tell what he was thinking. The muscles under her hand were tense, but his touch was warm and gentle. "Erik?" she asked hesitantly after a long time. "Can… can I come back at some point?"

He stopped, turned, and faced her. "You _want_ to come back?" he asked in disbelief.

She nodded, a trace of fear showing on her face. "If you leave me up there and then just disappear, how do I know I'll ever see you again?" She flushed. "I know it is selfish," she admitted. "After what I put you through today, _I_ wouldn't want me back if I were you… but even so," and here she gave a little half-laugh, "I'm not sure I can do without you. If you can ever bring yourself to forgive me, I would very much like to come back."

The expression in his grey eyes softened, and the line of his mouth eased a little. "I… would like very much to have you come again, Christine," he said in his rich, dark voice. Then his eyes hardened again. "If you think your precious Comte Philippe can spare you."

"Are you jealous of Comte Philippe, Erik?" Christine asked. She gave him a timid smile. "You needn't be." The smile faded, leaving her looking earnest. "It's true I spent an evening thinking myself in love with him… but really, any feelings for him that I thought I still had have faded into friendship—and the fond memory of his connection with my father. He has grown up… differently from what I expected, and what my father had hoped." Feeling daring, she extended a tentative hand up to trace the line of his jaw, left uncovered by the mask. "I only wish my father could have met you."

He shivered at her touch, and caught her hand in his. "Would he have approved of me, do you think? A monster, a grotesque, hiding behind a mask?" His voice was quiet, belying the rancour in his words, but he gripped her hand almost had enough to hurt.

"He would have approved very much of a musician with your skill… and a man with as great a spirit as yours." Bright colour suffused her face as she confessed, "My father was not so shallow as I have shown myself to be. He was always able to look past the external appearances and see the heart of a man." She hung her head. "He would have loved you, Erik."

He relented. Knowing that he would have had her father's approval (and Comte Philippe did not) pleased him. Especially with Christine's having been so close to her father—that had to mean something. And she had made him a solemn vow, to someday be able to look upon his face. He didn't expect her to be able to keep it, but the feeling behind it was nice. Maybe, just maybe, there might be hope for him after all.

All the same, he was going to have some words with his overly talkative father. Gerard had no business telling this girl his entire history! Although he had to admit, he was glad Gerard had told Christine his name. He rather liked the sound of "Erik" coming from her lips. The fact that she was calling him "Erik" instead of "Maestro" was also hopeful; it pointed towards her desiring a more equal relationship than mentor and protégé.

Erik was all for that, even though he harboured little hope that she would ever be able to keep the vow that she had made in so determined a fashion. He smiled a little to himself, walking along with her. She'd been so adorable in her resolution that he'd been hard-pressed not to take her in his arms right that moment! But he knew, didn't he, that he didn't deserve her. She may protest her feelings towards that skirt-chasing comte, but Erik had seen him. He was young, handsome, vibrant—how could Christine ever come to prefer his company to that of such an Adonis?

Erik had no way of knowing that even now as they walked, her mind was dwelling on the way he had looked in his rage—shirt rippling, muscles tense, his entire frame alive with passionate fury—and feeling a frisson of frightened, excited pleasure at the thought.

_Author's Note: It's just a scene, what I wish had happened in that movie. It won't ever be more, I don't think. If anything more comes, I'll certainly add to it, but at this point I have no idea where to take it. Anyone who has seen the Kopit/Yeston film or play have any good ideas? Please feel free to tell me them in your reviews. You are planning to review, aren't you? It's just not worth writing if you don't review:)_


	2. The Young Hero

Gerard had heard the grinding noise of the wall about to move, and he stationed himself next to the opening. He glanced around; he was alone. The wall moved back slowly.

Christine came out, slowly, still holding Erik's hand. She looked back at him as she stepped out into the daylight; he stayed in the shadows behind the wall. As Gerard watched, he bowed and kissed Christine's hand and then released it and turned away without ever seeing Gerard there. He stepped back and the wall closed tightly behind him.

"Oh! M. Carrière!" Christine exclaimed. "I didn't know you were there!"

"He let you go?" Gerard asked. "Are you all right?" The girl looked a little the worse for wear, in terms of her hair and her dress, but not overly traumatised.

She nodded. "Yes, I'm fine!"

Suddenly they heard Philippe's voice on the stairs. "Gerard! Gerard, they said you were down here. What—" He came around the corner near the fountain and saw them both.

"Christine! Where have you been? What happened to you, my darling?" he demanded, running over to her. He gazed at her dishevelled hair, her wrinkled dress where Erik had been weeping on her shoulder, and her general air of confusion. "What happened?"

He caught sight of Jean-Claude, sitting near the Rotunda entrance, and ordered, "My carriage! Quickly!" The doorman leaped to obey.

"No, Philippe," Christine protested, but he ignored her.

He whipped off his coat and put it around her shoulders, brushing her hair out of her face with overly familiar hands. "No, Christine, I'm taking you home with me. You need someone to take care of you right now. We're going to get to the bottom of this, never fear!"

Knowing it was useless to argue, Christine exchanged glances with Gerard. He shook his head slightly—don't speak of Erik. She frowned; it wasn't as if he'd needed to tell her that! But with him she could be honest, and maybe the two of them could put their heads together and work out what to tell Philippe. With this thought in mind she submitted to Philippe's embrace, all the while keeping a death-grip on Gerard's arm.

When the carriage pulled up, Philippe got in first and then assisted her. If he was surprised that Gerard got in after Christine, he shrugged it off quickly and whipped up the horses.

The Chagny chateau was gorgeous, but Christine had no peace of mind to enjoy it. Philippe's questions were getting more and more impatient; Gerard tried to calm him, but he would have none of it.

"For the last time, Christine, where did he take you?" he demanded furiously. "And _what_ did he do to you?"

"For the last time, Philippe, I can't tell you!" she cried. "I am not hurt in the least, and I'd be grateful if you'd stop asking me!"

He sighed, throwing down his coat. "Fine," he said flatly. "I'll have someone show you to your room."

"Philippe, I can't stay here! With you!" she protested, shocked. "What will people say?"

He rounded on her furiously. "You weren't so concerned about your reputation when you were alone with that masked fiend all night long! Well, mademoiselle, if you can spend the night with him, you can spend the night with me!"

Christine's appalled gasp was drowned out by Gerard's raised voice. "All right, that's enough!" He turned to Philippe. "The last thing she needs is to be hounded by you all the time she's here, Philippe. And don't you _dare_ take advantage of her while she's under your roof, do you hear me? I know your ways, don't forget!"

Philippe flushed a little under this lecture, but bravado soon won out. "Who are you, to tell me what to do in my own house?" he asked. "Christine would never even have come to Paris if it weren't for me. I've even been thinking about giving my name to this dirty little opera wench--I think she at least owes me an answer to my questions!"

"I don't, though," Christine spoke up. She glanced up at him, her expression apologetic but determined. "I don't owe you, Philippe; I don't have to answer to you for anything."

In the face of his stony silence, she went on. "Ever since the Bistro, you've treated me like you own me. You don't. I'm the only one who has the right to choose where I spend my time, and with whom. Now," she stood up from his green velvet chair. "If you don't mind, I'd like to return to the city. Last night was proof that I have some rehearsing to do."

"An excellent idea, mademoiselle," Gerard approved. "If you don't mind, I think I shall accompany you; I have some unfinished business to take care of at the opera."

Their eyes met; both Gerard and Christine knew exactly what "unfinished business" he had to take care of: talking to Erik about her abduction.

Philippe noted the significance of their glance, and sighed. "Fine; I'll go and order the carriage." He ducked out of the room, but didn't leave.

He heard the murmuring of faint voices within. "Why did he let you go?" Gerard wanted to know.

"I don't know. He just… did. I was afraid he might not, too, after I saw his face."

"You saw his _face_?" Gerard sounded stunned. "He never lets anyone see his face."

Christine's voice grew fainter, and Philippe strained to hear. "I asked him to. I told him if he loved me, he should let me love him in return, and he showed me his face."

Philippe swore. Was she serious? How could she _love_ that masked animal? Enough of this. He'd order the carriage and send her back to Paris this time, but next time he saw her he wouldn't let her go so easily! One way or another, Christine would be his.


	3. The Distressed Damsel

_Author's Note: Have just added in a new chapter before this one. Now that I have the DVD, I'm revising the whole story.

* * *

_

Christine had heard nothing from Erik ever since he had brought her back up from below. It had been weeks, and she was beginning to think that she really had offended him too badly for him to want to see her again. To ease her depression over his absence, she poured herself into her studies, learning all the librettos and music for the rest of the opera season. She cynically decided to learn both the lead and the mezzo parts, in case Carlotta decided to stage a comeback. Carlotta had been acting decidedly odd ever since Christine's debut, though,and Christine had been cast in the lead. There had been several successful performances of Faust since the night of the chandelier disaster, and thankfully, she had not frozen up once afterthat first night.

All the rehearsing and performanceskept her busy, and it kept her mind off Erik. Philippe, eager to stage a repeat of their long evening together, sent her daily notes which she did not answer. He waited for her in the corridors of the opera, but she had enlisted Jean-Claude's help in avoiding him. His notes were angry, arrogant, and pleading by turns, and she had no idea what sort of mood he would be in when next she saw him. So it was easier just to avoid seeing him. It also helped to assuage her guilt over her betrayal of Erik.

Gerard she saw almost every day, long enough for a kind greeting and a knowing smile each time they passed each other in the corridors. She thought it was rather funny, for a "former" manager of the opera to remain so ubiquitous--and once she overheard him talking with the stage manager and realized that he was still managing the opera even if he didn't have the title of manager anymore. She hoped the Cholettis would come to appreciate him! M. Choletti grew increasingly harder to find; he spent most of his time closeted with either his singing, dancing wife or with Ledoux, the police inspector. As the weeks went by, he began to look more drawn and gaunt.

She still stayed late in her dressing room every night practicing, working on her parts and hoping that at some point she would hear Erik's rich voice whispering to her through the walls. She never did, and had to make her way quietly back to her flat, alone.

On the night she got caught up in learning the final aria fromLa Boheme, she stayed long after midnight. She sighed, hearing the church bell chime one—she hadn't meant to stay quite that late! She put away her music, threw on her wrap, and ducked out the side entrance on the Rue Scribe.

The street was dark—the opposite side of the opera house was well-lit, where the fashionable people had their carriages waiting for them just outside the rotunda. But the Rue Scribe was dark and seemed abandoned as she heard her own footsteps echo in the empty street.

She had absolutely no warning before she was grabbed from behind.

The man stank, she noticed clinically as she filled her lungs with air for a good scream. Her attacker clapped his hand over her mouth and nose. "Shhh!" he hissed. "No noise, Mademoiselle Daée, or you'll be a sorry little songbird!"

Unable to breathe, Christine struggled wildly, kicking back with her heel and catching him on the shin. He cursed at her, but moved his hand from her nose so she could breathe. Her mouth stung where he had struck it.

She heard the rapid footsteps of another man approaching. "Got her?" the voice came out of the darkness. She felt the man who was holding her, nod. The newcomer sauntered over, whistling under his breath. He leaned in close and peered at her face. "Ooo, pretty!" He glanced up at Christine's captor and said in a conversational tone, "You know, I don't know as I've ever had an opera singer before."

Christine's eyes widened in fear and she struggled some more. The man holding her tightened his grip and wrenched her head brutally to the side. Christine knew that he was seconds away from simply breaking her neck, and stilled.

"That's better, little songbird," he growled. "Now you're going to come with my friend and me, and we're all going to have a jolly time before we kill you."

Kill her?

That did it. As she heard a carriage come rumbling up the street, she knew that this might be her one chance to escape. She took a deep breath, shoved her captor's hand off her mouth, and screamed.

Extensive vocal training does wonders for one's volume and projection, and Christine had a uniquely recognizable voice. Her scream rang out, piercing, echoing off the buildings and drowning out the rumble of the carriage, and informing anyone who had ever heard her sing, that Christine Daée was in trouble.

Her captor swore, and spun her out of his arms, backhanding her across the mouth as he did so. "Shut up!"

With a curse, the other man grabbed Christine and clapped his work-roughed hand over her mouth. It was too late; the rumble of the carriage had stopped.

The first man, who had captured her in the first place, scanned the street; the carriage stood there empty, its door hanging open. Where was the occupant?

Christine glanced up at a flicker of motion atop the carriage. The man wore a black cloak, which billowed out like the wings of a giant black bird of prey when he leaped from the top of the carriage with a roar of rage, to fall upon her captors.

The first one he tackled to the ground and brutally kicked his face in. The second man who was holding onto Christine spun her away from him and faced the newcomer. The black-cloaked man feinted left and then dove right when the man moved left to block him. The cloaked man came up suddenly behind Christine's captor and grabbed him around the throat. Half-choking him, he smashed his fist into the man's face, and the man crumpled into the street. The black-cloaked man gave him a dismissive kick and then turned back to the other one, who had grabbed Christine first.

Christine picked herself up from where she had fallen and backed up into the shadows of the opera house. As she watched, the black-cloaked man proceeded to thrash her two attackers into oblivion. She started to recognize the way he moved. Those flowing but furious motions, graceful but menacing, reminded her of when she'd seen Erik tearing apart his home in his rage. She covered her mouth with her hand, half in fright and half in shock.

When both her attackers lay still on the pavement and showed no sign of moving, the man in black turned his attention to Christine. His gaze found her cowering in the shadows, even though the street was dark, and he strode over to her, his cloak flapping behind him.

Christine grabbed her skirt, preparing to hike it up and run if her rescuer turned out not to be Erik. She kept her hand over her mouth, trying to muffle her breathless pants.

He drew close, and she could see a faint white blur that was his shirtfront, and another that was his face. He spoke. "Christine?"

There was no mistaking his dark, velvet voice, and Christine sagged against the wall of the opera house in relief. "Erik," she whispered.

He was at her side in an instant, and for the first time he touched her voluntarily as he took her arms and held her up. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice low. His hands were warm on her upper arms.

She nodded, resting her head on his shoulder. "They didn't hurt me badly, but—oh, Erik, I was so scared!"

She trembled, and thinking she was cold, he let go of her long enough to wrap his cloak around her. "The cab is still there," he told her. "Shall I take you back to your new flat? Do you have anyone to stay with?"

She shook her head. "There's no one there." She shivered at the thought of being alone, and unconsciously huddled closer to him. Slowly, very slowly, his hands left her upper arms and slid across her shoulders until she was completely enfolded in his arms. She sighed and put her arms around him in turn.

"Christine," he said, his voice sounding a little strangled. "Christine. I don't wish to presume, but you really shouldn't be alone. Would you like to accompany me back to my house?"

"Yes, please, Erik—if you don't mind, that is," she said shyly, looking up to gauge his reaction.

His response reassured her. "Mind? For weeks it's what I've been dreaming of, to have you in my house again. Come." He drew her after him, his shoes soundless on the pavingstones, as he approached a small, hidden door. He unlocked it and went in first, extending a hand to her from the darkness within.

Christine took a deep breath, took his hand, and followed after him.


	4. Though the Sorrow may Last for a Night

_A/N: Drat it all, this was supposed to be a oneshot. It just keeps on coming, though. Grr.

* * *

It was pitch-black in the passage, and the air felt chilly and clammy. Tiny chittering sounds came from the corners, and Christine gasped, realizing they were rats. She clung to Erik's hand like a lifeline._

"I am sorry," he told her, his disembodied voice strangely calming in the pitch-black tunnel. "I don't usually use any lights this far up. When we get below, I have some candles there, that will light the rest of the way for you."

Christine made a faint noise and gripped his hand tighter. "Just… just don't leave me, Erik. Please!"

"You know better than to fear that, Christine," he answered calmly. Christine stumbled over an uneven flagstone in the dark, and he stopped. "Would you by any chance prefer to take my arm, my dear, at least until we get to the candles?"

"Oh, yes, please!"

He drew her arm through his own, and continued on his way down all the stairs, ramps, and around the corners that led to the fifth cellar. At the third cellar, he stopped suddenly and reached up onto a high shelf for something. "Excuse me," he said politely, extricating his arm from her grasp. Christine heard a tiny scrape of a striker, and then blinked at the sudden light of a candle. He held it aloft and turned back to her.

Christine saw his mouth open in shock. "You didn't tell me you were hurt," he said. He took out his handkerchief and without even thinking about it, pressed it to the side of her mouth.

Christine had been wondering whether that little tickle at her mouth was blood or not; her memory was a little hazy after being stuck the first time. She had noticed that Erik wasn't nearly as shy about touching her as he had been for all those long months of their lessons. She remembered touching his shoulder once, and the stunned look he had given her. She remembered once putting her arms around him, to tell him thank you, and he had only sighed and gazed ceilingward before gently allowing his head to rest atop hers. He hadn't even dared to put his arms around her in return.

Now, though, he had offered his hand for her to hold, his arm to take, and up there in the street, he had even offered her the comfort of his embrace. And now he offered to clean the blood from her face with his own pristine white handkerchief.

Blushing, she said, "Thank you," and took the handkerchief herself, turning away to mop up the worst of it. She didn't realize why, but she didn't want him to see her looking all bloody and battered.

"Christine?" He sounded concerned. "Are you afraid of me? I'd never harm you."

She turned back, holding the handkerchief to hide her bruised mouth. She shook her head. "Afraid of you? Oh, no! I just…" she looked down at the dusty stone floor. "I just don't want you to see me like this, that's all."

For Erik to start laughing was the last thing she expected. His laughter rolled out and echoed in the caverns, a full, deep chuckle of hearty amusement. He took her other hand, bent his head, and held her hand to his lips for a long moment.

Erik's lips were warm and moist, pressed against the back of her hand. She wondered what they would feel like, pressed against -- but no. Best to derail that train of thought. She shivered at the contact.

Without missing a beat, he pulled off his cloak and threw it around her shoulders. "If you could only hear yourself from my point of view," he replied, still smiling as he touched his mask. She was astonished at the beauty of his smile. In the dim candlelight, his ordinary white mask looked enough like a human face that she could almost fool herself that she was in the company of an ordinary, handsome young man.

Christine vaguely remembered the blackened, swollen, and twisted horror that had been his face, and was forced to smile as well. "I suppose from your point of view I do sound a bit silly," she admitted. "But still… what young woman wouldn't want to look her best for… well, for someone she…" Quick, quick, find a word! "…someone she admires."

"I am deeply flattered," came his warm, quiet response. His lips curved slightly, and Christine looked away and blushed at his gentle and sincere tone of voice. He said nothing more for a moment, as though savouring the compliment.

Suddenly he came out of his reverie and offered his arm again. "Come, though; we should get you home where it's warm, so I can treat your injuries."

His house on the lake was just as she remembered it; quiet and peaceful, filled with calm shades of blue and grey. She could still hear the gentle lapping of the waves against the edge. Erik brought her into his sitting-room and sat her down before he went around lighting the lamps. A warm glow filled the room. Erik came and solemnly took both his own cloak and her wrap,and now he sat down next to her with a bowl of cool water and a cloth.

"Tell me what happened," he ordered as he began to clean her face. "In detail: everything you remember. Did they know who you were?"

She nodded and closed her eyes as she tried to remember everything she had seen, heard, or even smelt about the encounter. Erik's touch was gentle and soothing on her face, and she leaned into it unconsciously as she talked.

"Done," he said finally. Christine had almost fallen asleep, leaning against him. "Did you have any other injuries, or just the ones on your face?"

She blushed at the question, and stammered, "N-no, I don't think so. J-just my face."

"Very well, then, my dear." He stood up and offered her a hand. "I'll show you to your room. You should find everything you need in there."

Christine found her room exactly as she had left it. She hadn't had much time to explore before, though, and now she opened the other two doors. One was a bathroom, comfortable and well-appointed. The other was a closet, holding several gowns that looked exactly her size. There was a nightgown and a dressing-gown as well, and she took them down gratefully. She changed into them, breathing a huge sigh of relief at finally being out of her corset. She took down her hair, unwinding it from its basic, utilitarian bun, lay down in the bed and closed her eyes. She left the light on.

She fell asleep before long, but it was not restful. Having to recount all the details to Erik had refreshed the experience in her mind, and she had nightmares. Images popped into her mind, unbidden. She rubbed her throat where one of the men had tried to choke her, and remembered the other hissing in her ear, "I don't know as I've ever had an opera singer before." She gasped and rolled over, putting the pillow over her head.

It was no use. "We'll have a jolly time," the men whispered to her. "We'll all have a jolly time. We'll all have a jolly time… before we kill you! Before we kill you! Before we kill you!"

Christine thrashed in her sleep and cried out in terror. "Erik! Erik!" she screamed, not knowing where she was, only knowing that he could save her.

And suddenly, he was there. "Christine, my love, what is it?"

"Erik, please," she begged, sobbing, not even knowing what she was begging for. She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, as he stood tall and grave next to her bed. She stretched her arms up toward him. "Please!"

Hesitantly, as if he couldn't quite believe she would want him to do this, he sank down onto the bed beside her and slowly took her in his arms. She put her head down on his shoulder and wept. Her hand crept up and took hold of his shirt-ruffles as she cried, and very tentatively, his hand closed over hers.

When she finally calmed, he tried to ease her head back onto the pillow and loosen his embrace, but she clung to him and wouldn't let him get up. "Erik, please…" she begged. "You said you wouldn't leave me…" She was exhausted and almost falling asleep, but resolute.

Erik looked around in alarm. Yes, they were definitely in a bedroom. Yes, he was definitely in this young woman's bed. Staying there with her would definitely not be proper! All the same, though, Christine might continue to have nightmares if he left. Feeling slightly guilty, as if he were taking advantage of the situation, he settled himself more comfortably. Christine let out a low sigh of pleasure and relaxed against him, falling into sleep once more.

That did it. Her sigh convinced him to stay. Just as long as she doesn't wake up and find him in her bed and think _that_ was the nightmare, he thought cynically.

"Very well, just remember you asked me to," he whispered to her with a faint smile. His own eyes flickered closed and he started to sing quietly to her just as he had before. He chose something from "La Boheme" this time, knowing it was something she had just started learning.

Before he even reached the recitative portion, they were both asleep.


	5. Joy comes in the morning

The next morning, Christine was awakened by a movement of Erik's: he shifted in his sleep, tossing one leg over hers and cradling her close to his body. She blushed a little at the impropriety of having slept in the same bed with him, but with him wrapped around her, she was effectively imprisoned. She couldn't move away because there wasn't room in the narrow bed, and she couldn't get up because he would wake if she tried to move him.

At that point, she gave up and rolled over to face him, relaxing against his body. He was warm, the bed was comfortable if a bit narrow, and Christine was still half-asleep. One small hand crept up to clutch the ruffles on his shirt as she sighed deeply in comfort. At some point, the thought struck her that if this is what it would feel like to share his bed every night, she could definitely get used to it.

She shocked herself with the thought, and blinked her eyes open to look at him. She gasped.

At some point in the night, Erik had taken off his mask.

The light was dim, but she could still clearly see the mangled mess that was his countenance. It was mostly black, but with large, swollen, unsightly blotches of lumpy, reddened flesh. She could still see the reddened spots where his mask rubbed against it, and her heart was filled with sympathy; his everyday mask obviously pressed in on the natural contours of his face, rather than following them. How uncomfortable he must be all the time!

Now that she could see him clearly and was prepared for the sight, she felt more sympathy than horror. Especially remembering how much she had hurt him the first time she had seen it—she had the opportunity now to get used to his appearance, and she found it wasn't quite as bad as she had remembered.

The sudden thought struck her: was this a face she could get used to seeing like this every morning? Even through her embarrassment the answer came to her: yes. Even as she gazed at it, bare inches from her own and relaxed in sleep, she was seized with the sudden urge to touch her lips to it.

Erik was starting to awaken; his hand on her back slid up to touch her hair, and she was aware of the very instant when he opened his eyes to find her there.

His whole body stiffened for an instant, and his leg jerked away from hers. Then he slowly brought his hand around to stroke her face… gently! Oh, so gently, so that she could barely even feel the touch.

"I must still be dreaming," he murmured to himself. He hadn't noticed yet that his mask was missing, and Christine smiled at the tender affection that spread easily across his misshapen features. She could tell that, because he was so often masked, he wasn't used to guarding his expressions; his distorted visage freely showed his amazement and delight, without any hint of self-consciousness. "What a lovely dream, though, to wake with Christine in my arms!"

Christine took a chance and lifted a tentative hand to touch him in turn. She ran her hand down his faintly-stubbled jaw line. He closed his eyes and made an inarticulate sound as he closed his eyes and leaned into the caress. Christine smiled.

"Erik?" she asked.

"Hmmmm?" He purred like a cat, exuding contentment.

"Remember what I promised you, the last time I was here?"

His horribly wrinkled forehead creased even more as he frowned. "…Yes."

Christine smiled at the wary expression in his sea-grey eyes, and, leaning up on one elbow, pressed her lips softly to his forehead.

A sharp, panicked gasp was his response, and his hand flew to cover his face as he pulled away. "_Christine!"_ he moaned. "Christine, what did you do?"

"I didn't take your mask off, Erik. You did it yourself, in your sleep." She took his hands in hers, gently pulling them away from his face. "And please don't hide from me, _Maestro_. I'm learning not to mind your face." To prove it, she reached up and laid her lips against his lumpy, blackened cheek.

He inhaled deeply, but—eyes squeezed shut and trembling a little—he let her kiss his face. He just sighed her name in a whisper that sounded almost pained. "Oh, Christine!"

She stroked his face with gentle fingers. "Erik?" She paused for a few moments, gathering her courage, and then asked, "Will you kiss me?"

His eyes opened wide and he drew back. "_What?"_

Embarrassed, Christine looked away. "You don't wish to," she concluded.

"You… would wish me to?"

Blushing furiously, she met his gaze and gave him a shy nod.

"I am still dreaming; no question. Or perhaps I have died," he whispered. "That's it: I died, and through some mix-up I got sent to heaven." Tentatively he touched her forehead with his lips, and then rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes as if it had been too much for him.

He did not immediately reach for his mask, though, so Christine took it as a hopeful sign.

There wasn't room on the narrow bed for her to use the pillow, so with a sigh she settled her head down on Erik's shoulder. She felt his arm come up to hold her closer to him, and smiled to herself. She inhaled his scent--beeswax and ink, just a tinge of mustiness from the cellars, and his own personal scent--and found it comforting.

She could hear his heart still pounding, though. She decided to engage him in conversation, to try and calm him down (and herself, too; she felt oddly short of breath when she realized just how close they were lying together on the narrow bed).

"Thank you," she told him, "for staying with me last night."

"Believe me when I say it was my pleasure," he replied in his usual dark, silky voice. There was a long pause while his heart slowed its hammering, and then he asked quietly, "So I'm really not dreaming this?"

Christine's heart broke when she realized how hurt he had been by her fainting at the sight of his face. She shook her head where it rested against his chest. "I was attacked last night. You rescued me and brought me home. I had nightmares and asked you to stay with me. I'm… grateful that you did."

Erik reached up one hand and stroked her hair, and then changed the subject. "So what shall we do now?" he asked. "Feel like breakfast?"

Christine would have been happy to just continue lying there with him, but she got the sense that he was getting restless. She nodded, sitting up. "Breakfast sounds wonderful."

Erik turned his face away and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He reached for his mask where it lay on the floor, and placed it over his face.

"You don't have to, you know," she told him, watching him tie the ribbons with long-practised ease.

He nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do." He turned his head to look at her with unreadable grey eyes, and said, "I wouldn't want to tempt fate, you see."

* * *

_Author's note: This story is like a bad horror movie; every time you think the villain is dead, he shows up again, gorier and meaner than before. In this case, every time I think I'm all done with this story, I get another plot bunny racing madly through my head, and each one is fluffier than the last._

_So I'm finally giving in; I've decided to use this story as a tool to practice writing fluffy romance scenes (since Heaven knows I need the practice!) and justifying its existance that way. I still don't know where it's going, or even if it's going anywhere at all--so far, no actual plot lines have presented themselves to me. Just fluffy scenes, and smoochy ones. I'm open to comments on the fluff, because I want it to be romantic and affecting, but NOT to sound like something out of a romance novel, with all the heaving and stroking and all those other -ing words. So if any of it comes out sounding like a bodice-ripper, please let me know and I'll work on it some more!_

_Ripper de la Blackstaff, I'm afraid you're not gonna get a sex scene from me. I'm perfectly willing to have them make out like nobody's business, but it's not really not my style to include all the squishy details. (Always makes me feel voyeuristic) Hope you can cope with just the smoochy parts. Angelheart, there are only two or three other Y/K Phantom stories on FFN--one of them is on my "favorite stories" list, near the bottom. It's formatted badly, but quite cute if you don't have any problems reading big blocks of text. Bellamyy, check out eBay for a DVD of this version; I just got mine in the mail (from Korea!) and it inspired me to tack on another chapter or two of cotton candy to this story. Bamfwriter, I really must agree with your "Charles Dance... GROWL!" comment. I just watched it again and I gotta say... Gerard Butler has got nothing on Charles Dance for sheer, romantic sexiness. Wow, but that man is hot! And his voice, mmm. I could listen for hours to him reading a phone book. Kates, thanks for your enthusiastic reviews! I hope you like these additions._


	6. Gentling the Beast

Erik left her for a few minutes to bathe and dress, and when he showed up at her door again it was clear he had done the same. His attire was once again flawless and his hair was slightly damp. What she could see of his chin was neatly-shaven.

"You'll have to forgive me for not having something prepared for you," Erik told her a few minutes later as he escorted her to the room he used as a kitchen. "I wasn't expecting company. I'll have something made up in a moment, though."

"May I help?"

It was rather interesting, seeing Erik doing such domestic tasks as slicing fruit and measuring flour. He did it with aplomb, somehow managing to look graceful and self-possessed even with a smudge of flour on his waistcoat. Christine washed and hulled some strawberries while the crêpes were cooking, smiling to herself at the thought of making breakfast with the opera ghost.

"I was just wondering…" she began.

"Yes?"

"Where do you get your food from?"

"I buy it, just like anyone else."

"But if you never leave the opera…"

"Jean-Claude does my shopping for me, and I pay him out of my salary," he explained. "And I do leave sometimes. I'm very glad I was out last night, for instance."

"So am I!" Christine agreed vehemently. Then, "You have a salary?" she asked in astonishment.

He tilted his head. "Of course. That is I did, until the Cholettis came and took charge. I was Gerard's assistant, and he paid me as such." He put the plate of crêpes on the table. "There, now. _Bon appetit_."

"What will you do, now that he is no longer manager? The Cholettis… do not seem inclined to put up with a ghost in their opera house." Christine rolled up some strawberries in a crêpe and started eating.

Erik's lips tightened, but "I have a few ideas," was all he would say.

After breakfast, Erik offered to take her back up. "I assume you must have some pressing things to take care of, since you never made it home last night. I'll take you up as soon as you're ready."

"Oh, no, please…"

"What is it?" Oh, how could Erik possibly make his voice sound so deep, as if it were lined with velvet?

"It's just… I'm sorry. You must have things to do, yourself," Christine back-pedalled.

"Christine."

"It's just that I haven't seen you for a long time, _Maestro_! It's been weeks and weeks, and I know you were angry with me for last time, but I've missed you so much…"

"Hush." That one word, spoken in his quietly commanding voice, made her close her mouth abruptly.

"Are you saying that you wish… to stay here, with me?" Now the voice lost its edge of command and took on an air of disbelief.

Christine nodded, but did not meet his gaze. "Yes. For… a little while, anyway. I have missed… the time we used to spend together. Very much."

He nodded, his eyes softening as he came closer to her. "So have I. Very much." He lifted one hand and grazed her cheek with his knuckles. "I would love to have you stay." He came closer, so that she had to tilt her head back to look at him.

He's going to kiss me, Christine thought, heart pounding. He bent his head down, but paused a scant inch from her mouth. Christine could feel his breath on her lips, smelling of strawberries. Why was he hesitating? He was so close, so close… she touched his arm and felt him tremble. He straightened slightly, and then she felt his lips touch her temple. He gave her a lingering kiss there, and then slid his lips down the side of her face to press them against her cheek just in front of her ear.

Christine shivered. "Erik," she whispered. "Erik." She clutched at his shoulders helplessly.

He withdrew a tiny amount, enough to gaze into her eyes. His eyes were dark and hooded. He bent down towards her mouth again, stopping a hair's-breadth away. She could feel his lips graze hers when he whispered her name, and it was too much for her. She closed the distance, pressing her lips lightly against his.

* * *

_A/N: This was mainly for Ripper, who specifically asked for a kiss. Whoo! (Honestly, I was going to write one anyway, but hey, why not make Ripper feel good while I do it? Hee hee;)_


	7. The Mouth of the Beast

For just an instant, it was bliss.

Christine was not prepared, therefore, for him to recoil sharply with a gasp. He stared at her, eyes wide.

"I'm sorry," she said, backing away. "Was that too forward?" She dropped her gaze and flushed.

Erik, breathless, had only been surprised—shocked, even! —but not reproachful. He saw her shame and embarrassment as she turned away, and it was as if something inside him snapped. He made an inarticulate sound and grabbed her upper arm, pulling her back towards him. His mouth descended on hers with an intensity and passion that she had seen glimpses of before, when he had thrashed her kidnappers and when he had torn apart his house. His frame was nearly vibrating with constrained energy. Her arms snaked up around his neck as she responded eagerly, her mouth clinging to his as they tasted and explored each other in this new way. Her hands tangled in his hair, and found the ribbons that tied his mask on.

The mask was in the way. Erik had no thought of taking it off, though; his mind was filled entirely with Christine—he was drowning in her, in the sight of her beautiful brown eyes, dark with passion, and in the smell of her, the taste of her mouth.

Christine broke the kiss, staring up at him as she fumbled with the ties of his mask.

He froze.

"Let me, Erik," she whispered. "Please."

Slowly he bent his head, a cautious capitulation, and she pulled the ribbons free of his hair. She lifted the mask away from his face and set it down carefully on the table where they'd been eating… and then returned to his arms.

Oh! The kiss was so much better this time, without the hardened leather getting in the way, and when she backed off to stare at him, panting, she didn't even notice the blackish horror that was his face. All she could see was his beautiful grey eyes gazing into hers with all the passion and tenderness in the world. She returned to his lips—she had to! —and lost herself in the mystery that was Erik.

Erik had had no previous experience kissing; his caresses were unpractised, not smooth and skilled like Philippe's had been. And yet, somehow, Philippe had never made her feel this way. Whenever he had kissed her, there had always been the knowledge niggling at the back of her mind that he was altogether too good at this, that she was only another in a long line of his girlfriends and mistresses.

Erik's kisses were untutored and raw, filled with a naked and melancholy longing, as if he were baring his soul with every touch of his hands or lips. They filled her with a sort of frantic yearning, and finally she had to turn her face away and bury it in his shoulder while she caught her breath.

* * *

_A/N: Ok, I've written another chapter or two, but they're not fluffy. These ones actually contain a tiny semblance of plot, but they need some polishing before I put them up here. --Sigh!-- I guess this one isn't finished yet after all._


	8. Investigations into the Attack

_Author's note: Anyone who has seen this version of Phantom is already familiar with the way Erik and Gerard interact, with sort of a light humour underlied by Gerard acting as Erik's conscience to some small degree. I know some folks reading this haven't seen this version yet, though, so I'm including an example of their dialogue from the movie. This happens right after Gerard gets sacked; he comes down and tells Erik, and while they're talking a sort of shrieking sound issues from above._

Erik: My God! This place really is haunted! What is that?  
_Gerard: Without looking, I can say with confidence that it must be Carlotta.  
__Erik: Who is Carlotta?  
__Gerard: The new star.  
__Erik: She can't sing!  
__Gerard: I don't think she knows that.  
__Erik: Well, someone should tell her!  
__Gerard: She's married to the new manager.  
__Erik: Good God! That probably means she's going to sing all the time. What kind of **horror** are you leaving me in?  
__Gerard: Erik, what are we going to do about all this?  
__Erik: I know what I'm going to do about it: I'll simply kill them both.  
__Gerard: Erik.  
__Erik: I am teasing. Probably the only one I'll have to kill is her.  
__Gerard: Erik!  
__Erik: What has happened to your sense of humour?  
__Gerard: **My** humour?_

…_and it goes on from there._

_Also, in this version they spell Christine's name with two E's (no one know why), so when you see it, it's not a typo. "Daee" is the right way to spell it here._

* * *

From outside the room, Gerard Carrière watched with wonder through the window as Christine removed his son's mask and kissed him again and again on his malformed face. The trace of a smile crossed his face and he shook his head. Philippe wasn't going to like this.

Well, Philippe could go hang, as far as Gerard was concerned. That pretty-faced playboy had to learn sooner or later that he couldn't buy just anything he wanted. If Christine preferred Erik to Philippe, then Gerard could only congratulate her on her good taste. Erik was ten times the man that Philippe was. Gerard had worried for him, giving his heart to so young a girl; he had feared that Erik would be dreadfully hurt; he'd been afraid that Christine wouldn't be able to see past the mask to the great heart of the man who wore it. Now, though, it was clear that she had no trouble seeing past the mask… or even beneath it.

Gerard shook his head. The girl had a stronger stomach than he did, that was for sure. He started to back away silently, but his boot scraped on a flagstone. Erik heard it, and his head shot up as he locked eyes with Gerard. Gerard shook his head and spread out his hands in an apologetic gesture as he backed away.

Erik gave Christine one final kiss on the forehead and then stepped back, re-masking himself quickly. "Gerard!" his voice cracked out, loud in the stillness.

Gerard came slowly back into view. "Good morning. Forgive me; I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No matter; I was planning to go talk to you later anyway. You've saved me a trip above," Erik told him.

"What? What did you want to talk to me about?" Gerard asked in surprise, leaving the rest of his sentence unspoken: _at a time like this?_

Erik heard the rest of his sentence anyway, and his mouth twitched a little in acknowledgement. "I wanted to ask you if you knew anyone who would want to have Christine killed," he demanded.

"What?" Gerard asked, staring.

"She was attacked last night as she left the opera."

Gerard looked to Christine for confirmation; she nodded, looking frightened again. She stepped a little closer to Erik's side and surreptitiously reached for his hand. It was warm, strong, and steady, and she clung to it thankfully. She didn't like to be reminded of last night; no, especially not after the events of this morning!

Erik turned to her. "I need to tell Gerard what happened, but there is no need for you to go through it again, my dear. If you'd like to wait in the music room, I'll be there shortly."

Christine nodded gratefully. She smiled a goodbye to Gerard and headed toward the room where she had first heard Erik playing his flute.

"I didn't mean to intrude; I didn't know you had company," Gerard told him after Christine had left. Knowing that Erik had killed men if he even so much as suspected they'd seen his face, he was just a bit nervous.

Erik waved away his apology. "No matter. Much as I'd have liked to kill you at that moment, I can't. You're the only friend I have. And I'm sure it would have made Christine nervous."

"And it might get messy," Gerard agreed, falling gratefully into the lighter banter. "These carpets were expensive, as I recall." He pulled out a chair and sat down, and Erik followed suit.

"True. I'm just sorry you had to be subjected to the sight of my face," Erik told him. He knew what was worrying Gerard, and he sought to put the man at ease. He couldn't very well kill him; one of these days he was going to get Gerard to admit to being his father.

"As to that—well, I've seen better. Miss Daée certainly didn't seem to mind, though. But what's this about someone trying to kill her?"

"Her attackers knew her name, knew that she was a singer here. From her description, I was left with the strong impression that they'd been paid to get her out of the way. Who would want to kill Christine, Gerard?"

Gerard frowned. "Someone with enough money, probably. I know she has rivals in the chorus and the ballet alike, who hate her because of the Count de Chagny's interest. Carlotta is definitely not fond of her, and neither is Choletti." He paused, thinking hard.

Erik pursed his lips. "Carlotta will have other things on her mind for quite some time, I think." Her screams as he'd dumped a case full of rats all over her still echoed in his ears and made him smile whenever he thought about it. The experience had unhinged her mind to the point where she now saw rats everywhere she looked. Served her right for poisoning his Christine and sabotaging her debut.

"So I've heard," was Gerard's amused reply. Carlotta had earned none of his sympathy, and if Erik wanted to take his revenge with rats, well, at least he wasn't killing people.

"Who else, then?" Erik wanted to know.

"I've no idea. Are you sure they were doing it for pay?"

"No, I'm not; it's just a hunch I had while she was telling me about it. It seemed too well-planned to have been just a couple of thugs out having a lark."

"So what happened?"

"I'd gone out for a ride, to get some fresh air. When I returned I heard her scream; she was being set upon by two men who had threatened to take her home and have some 'fun' with her before they killed her." Erik growled a little, and then went on. "I jumped off the top of the carriage and explained to them quite reasonably what a bad idea that would be."

"I see," Gerard said sceptically. He had past experience with some of Erik's _reasonable explanations_. "Are they alive?"

"I have no idea. I beat them until they stopped moving, and then I left them lying in the middle of the Rue Scribe while I brought Christine down here. I can only hope they were then run over by a passing carriage. Repeatedly."

"Well, I'll ask around up there, and I'll certainly keep an eye on her whenever I can," Gerard promised. "What are you going to do with her? Shall you send her back this time?"

Erik shook his head. "I'm not sure. I can't protect her up there. I offered to bring her back this morning, but she asked if she could stay a little longer." He almost smiled.

"I see. Well!" Gerard said, impressed. "I hope things work out between the two of you, then. I'd better get going; I have a meeting with Inspector Ledoux this morning. I'm supposed to come up with some clever plan of catching you."

Erik scoffed. "Good luck with that little enterprise, Gerard," he said. "You'll need it."

Gerard chuckled. "Well, I have a couple of ideas," he said. "How about giving me your opinion on them?"

"I will listen," Erik said, "but not now. I have more pressing matters to take care of." His quick glance in the direction of the music room left Gerard with no doubts as to what "pressing matters" he referred to.

Gerard grinned. "I'll leave you to it, then. Come and find me when you have a moment." He turned and started back up the stairs.

Erik waved absently and hurried from the room.


	9. A Young Hero Makes a Major Misjudgement

_Author's Note: I have added in a brand-new chapter two, and have edited some of the other chapters as well. Since I have my own copy of the movie now, and don't have to rely on a faulty memory more than a decade old, I'm making a few changes to make this more accurate to the film._

* * *

Gerard slipped silently through the trapdoor just outside the manager's office. He heard shouting from within, and frowned. It sounded like Philippe.

It _was_ Philippe; a moment later, the door burst open and the young Comte came stalking through it, yelling back over his shoulder at Choletti. "If you don't start doing something, you're going to regret it!" Not watching his path, he bumped right into Gerard.

"What do you…" he snarled; then, seeing who it was, he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Gerard; I'm just in a foul mood today."

"So I see," remarked the other man. "Anything I can help with?" He felt he could afford to be magnanimous to the comte at the moment, since he'd just seen Christine's ardent display of affection towards Erik. He felt a tinge of satisfaction at the thought.

"I doubt it, unless you can tell me where Christine is!" The comte fumed.

"Christine? Why, can't you find her?" Gerard asked innocently.

Philippe shook his head, glowering. He shot a dark look behind him at the manager's door. "No I can't, and it's driving me insane. And they," he jerked his head toward the office, "don't have any desire to look for her, either. I demanded that Choletti at least tell Inspector Ledoux that she was missing, and all he said was 'Iffa that girl is missing, then alla I can say isa good riddance!' and Carlotta was too busy fighting off imaginary rats to even comment." He paused a moment, and then went on. "What on earth is wrong with that woman, anyway? She never used to have a rat obsession."

"I've no idea," Gerard replied blandly. "Perhaps the strain of both managing the opera and performing in all of them has finally caught up to her."

"Perhaps," Philippe conceded. He frowned. "What about Christine, though? You'd think Choletti would be more concerned about her absence than he is, because with her gone and his wife being all... the way she is, he has no diva! But where could she be? I don't even know where to look!"

"When is the last time you saw her?" Gerard asked, taking the man's elbow and guiding him further away from the trapdoor he'd come through. "I assume you've seen her since that morning after her debut?"

Philippe shook his head. "No, I haven't. Only that one time. I don't know what that masked fienddid to her, but ever since he kidnapped her she has refused to see me. She hasn't replied to any of my notes." He shook his head, bewildered and a little angry.

Something wasn't checking out, here. Gerard frowned. "If you haven't seen her in all this time, then how do you know she's missing? She could be just avoiding you."

He shook his head. "No. She didn't go home last night. I'd finally had enough of her silence, so I arranged for her to be brought to me so we could talk. The men I sent to bring her to my estate have both disappeared as well."

"You arranged to kidnap her, you mean?" Gerard asked, hiding his sudden fury.

"Kidnap her, Gerard? That's a fairly strong word to use with an old friend," Philippe warned.

"You arranged the abduction of a young woman who had already expressed her wish not to see you, in order to see her against her will. That sounds like a kidnapping to me," Gerard told him, his voice hard.

Philippe stared. "Why are you so emotional about this, Gerard? She's just an opera girl—what do you care?"

"I care, because those two thugs you hired were planning to take her to their place, rape her, and kill her," Gerard said flatly. "She made it to safety, no thanks to you, and that's where she's going to stay." Oh, Erik would be furious! Philippe would be lucky if he escaped with his life, and for once Gerard would be cheering him on.

"No, no, you're wrong. They were only going to bring her to my house, so I could talk with her." Philippe shook his head frantically, his light brown curls bouncing with the motion.

"She tells it differently," Gerard told him dryly.

"You've seen her?" Philippe asked eagerly. "Where is she?"

Gerard snorted. "You think I'm telling _you_? After what you've just told me, you're the last person I would trust with her safety now."

Philippe frowned, suspicious. "And so who is the _first_ person you'd trust with her safety?" he demanded.

"Never mind that," Gerard retorted. "Just go back to your chorus and ballet girls, Philippe. This one is above you."

Philippe went pale with anger. "Why are you protecting her so? Don't tell me she's with you! Gerard, that's sick; she's young enough to be your daughter. Granddaughter, even! If this is some perverse fantasy that she's your lost love, Belladonna or whatever her name was, then you need some help."

"Philippe, leave it alone. This has nothing to do with Beladova. Go home." Christine did look and sound startlingly like the singer who had been Erik's mother, but fondly though he remembered his lover, Gerard harboured no illusions that they were the same. He was tired, and he very much wanted to either thrash Philippe or tell Erik to thrash Philippe.

Sadly, he couldn't do either one at the moment; he had to go and meet Inspector Ledoux.


	10. A Different Approach

Carlotta Choletti's madness had several advantages, Gerard reflected as he headed toward the small room that Ledoux had been given for his questioning of suspects in the chandelier disaster. For one thing, she wasn't singing the leads anymore. For another, Christine had been doing very well without Carlotta's poisonous interference.

It had made Gerard's blood boil, hearing Erik explain that Carlotta had given Christine a drink that made her unable to sing. He remembered the look of desperate, helpless apology on Christine's face when she couldn't even get out her first line. His heart had gone out to her even when he'd thought she was too nervous to sing, but knowing that Carlotta's jealousy was responsible for the whole thing filled him with a grim satisfaction whenever he thought of Erik's revenge. He couldn't even summon up much guilt for it, either--Christine so closely resembled Beladova that he'd had a soft spot for the girl from the moment he first laid eyes on her and heard her sing at the Bistro.

For another, Alain Choletti's time was much more taken up now with keeping his wife calm, and assuring her that there were no rats running around her—he was too busy to properly manage the opera, and apparently either did not mind or hadn't yet noticed that Gerard was still doing most of it…and not only still collecting his salary, but still paying Erik his. Thank heaven Gerard had always been good at bookkeeping, because heaven knew he couldn't manage the opera to save his life; Erik had always done most of it.

Ledoux pelted him with questions about the opera ghost, box five, the notes, and every suspicious thing that had happened in the opera for the last several months. Gerard gave him bland and vague answers, put him off at every turn, and left him looking sorrowful and shaking his head.

"Gerard, we've been friends for a long time. Please, you must tell me what you know."

"I have already told you why I did not have the same problems as Choletti. You already know there is a ghost here; I merely acceded to his requests and everything went well. Choletti has denied the ghost every single request, and look where it's gotten him. I have nothing else to tell," Gerard insisted. "I am sorry that I cannot be of more assistance, Ledoux. If I find out anything helpful, I promise you'll be the first to know."

That much, at least, was true; he just didn't think that betraying Erik to the police would be in the least bit helpful. If the Cholettis continued to leave Erik alone, then Erik would leave them alone as well. He had been keeping a fairly low profile ever since the chandelier incident; a lot of people thought he was gone for good. There hadn't been any notes, any pranks, anything… although, thinking about it, Gerard was forced to admit that it might be because Choletti was so concerned with his wife's newfound madness that he had tacitly allowed Gerard to take his old job back.

Ledoux sighed. "Very well, Gerard. Thank you for your time."

* * *

As he left Ledoux's office, Gerard was accosted by Philippe again. The young man had apparently had a chance to think, resulting in a change of attitude since their last conversation. Looking sorrowful, he said, "Gerard, I'm sorry for what I said earlier." He pressed a folded paper into Gerard's hand. "If you know where Christine is, please give her this. I swear to you I meant her no harm; those men were only supposed to bring her to my house, not…do anything to her. I just need to talk to her, that's all. Please, will you give her that?"

Gerard gave him a long, sharp look that had the young man fidgeting nervously.

"Please, Gerard."

Gerard hesitated, but finally tucked the note into his waistcoat pocket and nodded. "I'll make sure she gets it," he said. "But Philippe, if the lady isn't interested in your attentions, you have to promise me that you'll respect her choice."

Philippe glanced away. "She means everything to me, though, Gerard. We were children together, for God's sake. When I found her again at the fair, it was like I'd reclaimed a piece of my childhood. And now I'm supposed to just back off and pretend that none of that ever happened?" He glanced up, his blue eyes clearly showing his pain and bewilderment.

Gerard nodded. "If that is what she wishes. Yes. That's exactly what you're supposed to do—and what you must promise me you _will_ do in such a case." He levelled a stern look at Philippe, who bowed his head as if ashamed, and nodded slowly.

"And one other thing." Gerard grabbed his arm as he turned to leave.

"What is it?"

"Don't ever, ever hire your dirty work done for you again! Honestly, how well did you know those two brutes you hired to kidnap her? Did you pay them in advance?"

Philippe nodded.

"Did you have any way to contact them, or did they say they'd be in touch with you?"

"They told me they'd be in touch. They said they wouldn't take her until after I'd paid in full, and then they'd bring her to my chateau and that would be the end of it."

Gerard shook his head in disbelief. "Foolish boy! They'd already taken your money and left you with no way to find them. What was to stop them from doing what they wanted with Christine as well?"

"I'm sorry," Philippe told him miserably. "I didn't think they'd…" he paused, swallowed, and continued with difficulty, "I just didn't think."

Gerard softened a little. The boy was so young! "Next time, do," he said, gentling his voice a little. He smiled. "If Christine sends a reply, I'll see that you get it.

"Thank you, Gerard. My old friend. Thank you." Philippe embraced the man briefly, and Gerard felt a slight pang of guilt.

Aw, what the hell. He was probably the closest thing to a father that Philippe had known for years. The boy'sfather had died and left him alone, titled and wealthy but with no guidance whatsoever, at a young age. He returned the brief hug, patted Philippe on the back, and gave him a smile. "All right, then. Off with you, now. I won't have you following me to try and find out where she is."

"Oh!" Philippe exclaimed with a mock innocence. "I would never dream of such a thing!" Laughing, he bowed and left Gerard alone.

* * *

_Author's notes to reviewers:_

_Eariwen: Philippe had tried to 'go and talk with her' several times, but she had been avoiding him and not answering his notes. He finally decided to go for the direct approach... which he should have thought through a few more times first! Also, the language in the film this is based on tends to be rather modern. It was late Victorian, anyway; people were using contractions and some more modern speech patterns by then. It wasn't like a Jane Austen book by that late in the century. BTW, I liked your -cough- double meanings interpretation -cough- Sure hope that "cold" of yours gets better!_

_Ben: I do hope this chapter salvages Philippe for you at least a little. Mustn't judge his whole characterization on one chapter alone. -g-_

_Ripper de la Blackstaff: Oh, mon amie, j'espere que tu n'es pas folle a cause de mon histoire maintenant.  
I promise the plotline won't ruin the fluff **too** badly._


	11. An Invitation

Turning to head back down below, Gerard was struck by an ironic thought: if he was Philippe's surrogate father-figure and Erik's father, that would put the two men into a brotherly position with each other. He grinned, picturing Erik's reaction to that idea: two brothers, vying for the affections of the same woman. This was the stuff that great operas were made from, and the idea of writing one like that made him chuckle to himself as he trotted down the grand stairs to the rotunda. Making sure Jean-Claude was facing the other way, he pressed the button in the base of the statue and sneaked through the wall.

As he descended, he heard Christine's exquisite voice raised in song, and then a moment later, he heard Erik's rich, golden tenor joining in. He stopped dead, listening, mouth gaping open.

He had known Erik could sing, and had sometimes heard him humming a few bars of this opera or that, but this was the first time he had ever heard Erik singing at a performance level. He was miles better than Alphonse, the leading tenor, Gerard marvelled. He had never heard anything like the soaring, full-voiced resonance of his son's singing voice.

The two voices rose in harmony together, climbing to a powerful crescendo and holding the final high note so long that Gerard was getting breathless just listening. They both cut off at the same time, leaving the cellars echoing with the sound.

Gerard took in a deep breath, shaken by the beauty of those magnificent voices. He waited till the echoes had died down before he cleared his throat loudly. "Erik?" he called.

"Come down!" Erik called. He led Christine from the music room into his sitting room, and nodded a greeting to Gerard when he came in. "So what brings you back to my domain?" asked Erik. Unspoken was the rest of the sentence, _…so soon?_

Gerard heard the unspoken words, and smiled. "I've found out who hired those two men, but if you'd rather I come back later—"

"Gerard." Erik's voice cracked like a whip. He closed his eyes and inhaled, and then breathed out through his nose. "Who?"

"Someone too naïve to realize that if you want to talk to a girl, you arrange a meeting. You don't hire some random strangers off the street to kidnap her so you can talk to her."

"It was Chagny, wasn't it?" Erik growled.

Half-afraid of Erik's reaction, Gerard hesitated an instant and then nodded. Christine gasped.

"I'll kill him."

"It turns out it was a mistake," Gerard said. "The young man only wanted them to bring Christine to his house so he could talk with her. The two ruffians he hired took his money and had no intention of doing what they'd been paid to do." He reached into his waistcoat pocket and turned to Christine. "I saw him upstairs just now; he gave me this for you, _mademoiselle_."

Christine took the note with an apologetic little glance at Erik, opened it, and read it. She frowned and read it again.

_Dear Christine,_

_For the sake of the lonely little boy you used to play with, I beg you to forgive me of my recent transgression toward you. My friend Gerard told me how badly it could have ended for you. I swear, I did not mean for that to happen. I only wanted to talk to you, to find out why you've been avoiding me ever since your unlucky debut._

_If you would do me the honour of having dinner with me at my chateau two nights hence, I would be grateful for your company and for the chance to make it up to you. Please, Christine, for the sake of the lonely man who is in love with you, please come. I will pick you up in my carriage after the performance._

_Your humble and obedient servant,_

_Philippe _

Christine looked up and saw both men watching her warily. She shook her head. "It's nothing bad. I don't think. What do you think?" She handed the note to Erik.

He scanned it quickly, scoffed,and gave it back. "Humble servant? Lonely? Ha! That man's never been lonely a single night since he started coming to the opera, my dear. He just wants to add you to his harem."

"May I?" Gerard asked, and read the letter when she handed it to him. He frowned. "Shall you go, then, _mademoiselle_?"

Christine's eyes widened. "I—I don't know," she admitted.

"I wouldn't advise it," Erik said. "He cannot be trusted, Christine."

Confused, she looked from one man to the other. "But—but he was my friend, Erik. I've known him for most of my life. I know now that I don't return his feelings for me, but he is still a friend to me."

"He's the one who hired the men who nearly killed you," Erik pointed out, clenching his fists, evidently at the memory of having used them on her attackers.

"Yes, but it was a mistake," she replied. "Listen, maybe if I go to dinner with him this once, I can explain things to him, and he'll leave me alone."

"Oh, tell me another fairy tale!" Erik groaned. "Christine, if you've been avoiding him as he says, then he will see this as a capitulation on your part. He'll feel that much closer to victory, to getting what he wants."

"Oh, no, Erik, I don't think that! If he's my friend, he'll listen to me and respect my decision."

"We can hope so, but he may not," Gerard said. "Philippe is my friend too, and although you may have known the boy, I know the man. He is young and spoiled, and definitely unused to being turned down by women. I advise caution."

"But he'll listen to me," Christine insisted. "I know he will." She moved closer to Erik and took his hand, looking up at him. "I won't have to avoid him anymore, and he won't feel he has to wait outside my dressing room—really, this will be better for everyone."

"Unless he decides to take advantage of you, with your being so conveniently unchaperoned in his house and all," Erik said tightly. "Christine, this is madness. You must not go."

"No, Erik, I will go," she said stubbornly. "He wouldn't hurt me, and this way I shall be able to… set him free, in a way. It will give me a chance to say goodbye."

Erik clenched and unclenched his fists, wishing Chagny were there before him right at that moment. He had seen the boy's love letters before; the words to Christine were not the first time he'd written something like that. He knew that all Philippe had to do was play the guilt card, and Christine would melt. He knew this about her, and accepted it as part of who she was—but the fact remained that Christine could be easily swayed if one appealed to her sense of guilt. She mustn't go. She would not return to him if she did… at least not with her virtue intact, or possibly even her heart.

Suddenly remembering the way she had manipulated him into doing what she'd wanted the day of their picnic, he got an idea. He gave a fatalistic shrug—he'd already spent the most blissful day of his entire life with Christine—if what he was about to say ended it, there was nothing he could do.

He took her other hand in his, so they were facing each other, and his voice became darker and more velvety as he spoke. "Christine, I ask you to trust me in this. Don't go to Chagny's house with him. Please."

He took a deep breath and risked everything he had ever hoped for, everything he had ever held dear. He had to know.

"If you love me, Christine, you won't go."

* * *

_A/N: Ha! Ha! Ha! I've been dying for someone to use that line on her ever since I first saw the film in 1990! Serves her right, the manipulative little vixen._


	12. The Implied Admission

_Did_ she love him? What would she say? Erik's heart was in his throat as he watched her carefully to gauge her feelings. Gerard, seeing he wasn't needed, quietly withdrew and went out to the edge of the lake.

"Love trusts, Christine," Erik whispered, holding her gaze. "If you love me, then you will trust me in this. Please. Don't go."

Christine's blue eyes were huge, locked on his smoky grey ones. She took a deep breath and let it out, and then took another one. Erik felt as if his heart had stopped beating, waiting for her reply. She took one more deep breath and then nodded shakily. "All right, Erik," she said very softly. "I trust you. I won't go."

Very deliberately he enfolded her in his arms as if she were as fragile as a porcelain doll. "Thank you," he whispered in her ear, shaken by her admission.

She rested in his embrace for a moment, and then eased away. "All the same, I would like to hear what he has to say, Erik. I won't go with him to his house, but perhaps I could meet him here?"

"Down here?" Erik asked, scandalized. Did she want to have that prat come down to his house?

Christine laughed, a musical little giggle. "No, dear. Here, in the opera house. Perhaps in my dressing room."

"And you won't go with him anywhere?" Erik pressed.

She shook her head. "I'll stay here in the opera. I promise."

He considered it a moment, and finally nodded. "Very well."

Christine reached up to give him a brief kiss. "Thank you, Erik. If you don't mind, I'll write my reply now, and send it up with M. Carrière when he goes." She sat down at his desk and uncapped the inkwell.

"When do you plan to meet him?" Erik asked.

Christine thought a minute, tapping her lip with the pen. "I know he must be planning to attend the _Bal Masque_," she said. "Perhaps I shall send him a note to meet me there, and we can talk."

Erik smiled faintly. "I'd been planning to ask you to accompany me to it," he said. "It will be a bit of a disappointment to me, for you to attend with him instead."

Christine's face lit up as she looked up at him. "Oh, Erik! I would love to go with you! Honestly, I can't imagine that Philippe will take up too much of my time that evening."

"Thank you, Christine," Erik told her, grey eyes shining with happiness. "I had hoped—that is, I wanted to be prepared for it, should you say yes."

"What are you saying?"

"I've bought you a costume, should you wish to wear it," he said casually, but she could see that it was important to him.

Christine smiled. "Let me get this note out of the way, then, and you can show it to me."

_Dear Philippe,_

_Thank you for your apology over what happened last night, but I am sure you will be able to understand that I must refuse your kind invitation to dinner at your house. I am sorry._

_I would like to talk with you, though. Will you meet me at the Bal Masque on Saturday? _

"Erik? What colour is the costume you have for me?"

"Black."

Christine went on writing:

_Wear a white mask, and look for me in a black one. We will have some supper and talk in my dressing room. I have many things to tell you; we will have much to talk about. For the sake of the little girl in the kitchen, Philippe, please do not expect more from me than this. Last night was extremely frightening._

_Ever your friend,_

_Christine_

She handed the letter to Erik and gestured for him to read it. He flicked a sharp look up at her. "Supper?"

She shrugged. "It will put him more at ease."

"The man is much luckier than he deserves." Erik folded the letter, calling for Gerard as he left the room.

Christine followed him down to the edge of the lake.

"_Monsieur_, would you mind seeing that the Comte de Chagny gets that note?" she asked the older man.

"Of course, _mademoiselle_."

Gerard looked a question at her, and a faint blush stained her cheeks. "I shall not be going to dinner at his chateau," she explained, darting a quick look at Erik. "Instead I shall talk with him here, in my dressing room upstairs, on Saturday."

Gerard smiled. "A wise decision, mademoiselle," he complimented her. He tucked the note into his pocket. "Saturday is the _Bal Masque_, though."

"Yes; I asked him to meet me there." She cast an affectionate glance at the man in the mask standing next to her. "I am sure Erik can do without me for long enough for me to ask Philippe to stop pursuing me."

"Ordinarily, no; but for a cause as noble as that, I imagine I could force myself to endure your absence," Erik said dryly, but with fondness.

"Philippe might well be hurt," Gerard warned her. "He genuinely cares for you."

She nodded, eyes downcast. "And I care for him, a great deal. Just not in the way he wants."

"And still more than he deserves," Erik remarked. "Come, though; I'll show you your costume and we'll see if you like it. Shall you be there at the _Bal_, Gerard?"

"Wouldn't miss it. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and deliver this to the boy before he leaves the city."

* * *

_A/N: Twinkle22, your wish is my command. You did wish for a prompt update, right? How's ten minutes sound?_


	13. Masked Ardour

"Oh, Erik! This is beautiful!" The dress was not exactly black; it was like a "black" rose--such a dark, rich shade of red that it looked black until the light hit it. It was trimmed with jet beads all over the bodice, and a black lace panel over the deep décolletage protected the wearer's modesty. The matching mask was trimmed with feathers. "I shall be delighted to wear it." She turned laughing blue eyes on him and asked, "Now, where is your costume?"

"Should I show you? Or should I surprise you?" he asked, catching her hand in his.

"Oh, show me! Do show me, please?" Christine coaxed.

"You understand that I shall be attending in my official capacity," he warned. "As the opera ghost, I mean."

Christine blinked. "So, what does the opera ghost wear to a masked ball?"

"This," he said, pulling out a dark red outfit made of satin and velvet. It was gorgeous, with gold embroidery on the red velvet waistcoat and gold trim running down the back. The accompanying cloak had a long train and was embroidered as well; Christine spread it out to read what the golden letters said.

"Do not touch me; I am the Red Death passing by," she read. "Erik, what does it mean?"

"It's a message to the new manager. If he leaves me alone,Death will pass him by. For everyone else, it's a reassurance that I shan't be claiming anyone that night."

"Except me," Christine added with a blush.

"Yes, but in a very human way rather than a ghostly one," Erik clarified, bending to kiss her hand.

* * *

Christine enjoyed the week before the _Bal Masque_ very much. She stayed with Erik in his home, getting daily music lessons that often lasted for hours as they both lost track of time. Erik had never sung much during their previous lessons, and she felt privileged to hear him so often now. He had the best voice she'd ever heard, high, full, and strong—a perfect match for her own. She reflected often on how unfortunate it was that because of his face, he'd never be able to sing in the opera. He played the organ for her, and the flute; its gentle, piping sound complemented her voice well, too.

Evenings they spent in his sitting-room, reading or talking. She ended up telling him about her childhood, when she and her father had been servants in the Chagny household. She told him about befriending the boy Philippe over some music, and about how much fun they had after that—racing around the gardens laughing together, running through the house when her work was done, having water-fights near the fountain in the garden. The most fun of all, though, had been when her father had taken her and Philippe to the fairs, and played the violin for her to sing to.

Her face fell when she told about Philippe's parents finding out about their friendship and sending her and her father packing. But even then it wasn't so bad; she loved her father dearly, and was overjoyed not to have to share him with anyone else. Without any domestic duties getting in their way, they were free to spend all their time together and they had, until his death a few years before she had come to Paris.

"It is the greatest gift a parent can give a child," Erik told her. "A happy childhood."

"Was yours unhappy?" Christine asked, expecting him to say yes.

He shrugged. "Only because of my face, and having to grow up down here."

"Weren't you lonely?"

His mouth took on a rueful expression. "Gerard never allowed me to be lonely for long. Whenever he found he lonely or unhappy in any way, he concluded that I was bored and his solution was to give me work to do."

"He did?" Christine was surprised.

Erik nodded. "Oh, yes. I have worked every job in this opera house at one time or another. The ones I most enjoyed were when he set me the problem of special effects—how to make it look as if the dragon were really breathing fire, for example, or how to make someone disappear onstage without a trapdoor. Those were the ones I liked the best."

"Ah," said Christine with perfect understanding. "Magic."

"Precisely."

"What was your least favourite job?"

"Cleaning the opera stables."

Christine laughed at the image of her elegant and refined maestro wielding a pitchfork and mucking out the horse stalls. Erik merely shrugged.

The clock struck eleven, and Erik rose. "It's late, my dear. We should get some sleep if we expect to be able to sing tomorrow." He held down his hand and helped her up off the footstool.

Erik was a stickler for singers getting enough sleep. Ever since Christine had been staying with him, he had always declared bedtime to be no later than eleven (he preferred ten).

During the day he was formal and gentlemanly in his behaviour; he did not shy away from her displays of affection, but he rarely initiated them himself. He had, however, taken to always kissing her goodnight before they parted. Her heart pounded in anticipation.

He escorted her to the doorway of her room and then tugged her around to face him. He cupped her face in both his hands and lowered his lips to hers.

The first kiss was gentle, tender, and Christine's hands slid up his chest to go around his neck and hold him closer. Her hands unerringly found the ties of his mask, and she backed off a little to ask him a question with her eyes. He hesitated an instant and then nodded, and she untied the ribbons and gently pulled the mask from his face.

Without the mask getting in their way, the second kiss was fiery. It went on for some time, and left them both gasping in its wake. Christine leaned back against the door-frame and took a deep breath, her dark blue eyes locked on Erik's. He reached for his mask and began to lift it toward his face again, but Christine stopped his arm.

"No, please. Let me look at you."

Erik swallowed nervously, but allowed it. She stood on her tip-toes and kissed him on his cheek, right on one of the blackened patches. Then she kissed the raised bridge of his nose (what he had for a nose), where the mask pressed down on the ridges; the skin there was swollen and red. "Your mask doesn't seem very comfortable," she said. "I wish you would leave it off, sometimes."

He shook his head, taking a shaky breath. The light touches of her lips on his face were nearly his undoing after their passionate kiss. "I do, sometimes, when no one else is around. When I have a guest, though, it seems more polite to cover my face. No one should have to look at it."

"But Erik, I don't mind. Truly I don't. Would you leave it off tomorrow, at least for a while? I don't like to think of your wearing it for my sake, when it hurts you and I'm getting used to your face." She smiled a little and kissed him again, quickly. "You're really quite handsome, you know, aside from the top half of your face. You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."

"Thank you, my dear," Erik replied humbly. "That is… kind of you to say."

He started to turn away, but Christine reached for his hand and pulled him back. "I like your mouth, too," she told him, just before she met it with her own.

Lost in the kiss, Erik was seconds away from doing something ungentlemanly. He had to stop. He ended the kiss and backed away. "Good night, Christine," he said, sounding hoarse, before turning to flee down the stairs. He made it to his own room and shut the door; then, on an impulse, locked it. The extra second it would take to unlock it might make him pause long enough to think better of rushing back to her right away. That girl had no idea of the effect she had on him.

No man could sleep in this condition, he thought ruefully. He waited till he had caught his breath and then unlocked his door and went out, down to the edge of the lake out of sight of Christine's window. He shucked his clothes and waded into the icy dark waters of the lake. A long and chilling swim was probably exactly what he needed.

Christine, watching from her window, saw him go and heard the splashing. After a long while, she saw him coming back up from the lake unmasked; he hadn't dried off before he'd redressed, and his shirt clung to his wet torso. She swallowed and backed away from the window, crawling beneath the covers. She might not have known what effect she had on him, but she was beginning to be aware of the effect he had on her. She lay awake for a long time until her heart had slowed down enough to let her sleep.

The next morning was the day of the ball. Their music lesson took up the whole morning, but after lunch Erik brought Christine back up through the mirror to her dressing room. "I shall meet you before the start of the ball," he said, bringing her hand to his lips. "I look forward to the pleasure of dancing with you."

"Lisewise, _monsieur_," Christine replied playfully. She took her costume from him and hung it up; when she turned back he was gone. Smiling a little to herself, she hummed a few bars of the song they'd worked on that morning; Erik's disembodied voice joined hers for the next few measures and then faded out as he retreated back to his house.

* * *

_Author's note: "Red Death stalking abroad," is actually an error in the original English translation. It should more accurately read "I am the Red Death passing by," with the idea of his bypassing people, rather than taking them._

_For those who've said the plot is beginning to get in the way of all the fluff, I hope this chapter placated you a little. -g-_


	14. A Stated Admission

Gerard was there when Erik got back, comfortably ensconced in Erik's armchair in the sitting-room, waiting for him.

"How was your week?" he asked politely. "I assume you've taken her back up?"

Erik groaned and threw himself onto the divan. "Yes. Oh, God, Gerard, I am doomed!"

"Doomed? How? What is wrong?"

He shook his head. "She's so innocent!" Erik exclaimed. "She's driving me crazy! I know you don't think I had far to go, but… I'm sure she must know by now how much I love her… but it's the _wanting_ her that's the problem. I am glad I've sent her back up; maybe I can spend the afternoon smashing things, before I have to face her again this evening. I could use a bit of catharsis, a release from all this restraint."

Gerard chuckled. He remembered having felt the same way about Erik's mother before they'd gotten together. In fact, there was a spot in his old office behind the door that still held the indentation of his fist, from one timeafter he had watched her ballet practice and been so frustrated he had to hit something. Erik had an advantage, though, something he could offer his lady that Gerard couldn't have offered Beladova. "Why not just marry the girl, then?"

Erik groaned, sinking down onto the divan and hiding his masked face in his hands. "How can I possibly marry her, Gerard? I'm a beast, a thing without a face, who's spent his whole life entombed in the cellars. Add to that the fact that I have no name to give her, and it makes for a rather disastrous courtship. 'Christine, will you marry me? I know I look like a gargoyle and have no name, but want to marry me anyway? We could live quite happily down here in the ground like a pair of weasels!' Marry her?" he scoffed. "How _can_ I marry her?"

Gerard hesitated an instant, and then nodded to himself. It was time. "You do have a name, Erik."

Erik shot him a sceptical glance. "Do I."

"You do." Gerard came and sat down next to his son and looked straight ahead. "Your name is Erik Carrière."

"You'd give me your name?" Erik asked quietly.

Gerard nodded. "Proudly." He turned his head to meet Erik's sea-grey eyes. "I'm your father."

Erik did not speak for so long that Gerard wondered if he was angry. Finally he huffed out a little laugh. "You didn't have to tell me, Father. I wouldn't have forced such a confession."

"You mean you knew?" Gerard asked, surprised.

Erik nodded. "I may have inherited the voice of an angel and the face of a demon, but when I look in the mirror I see your eyes looking back at me. I've known for years… but thank you for finally telling me. It means a lot."

"I'm sorry I waited so long," Gerard said. "I hope you aren't disappointed."

Erik scoffed. "Disappointed? No, Father. I'm the furthest thing from disappointed that you can imagine."

"So now you know what your name is, you can marry Christine."

Erik shrugged. "Except for that whole problem of 'face like a demon, entombed in the cellars,' perhaps."

"She doesn't appear to mind your face," Gerard pointed out.

"True," Erik admitted. He quirked the corner of his mouth in a self-deprecating smile. "It takes some getting-used to, though, even for her."

"Well, of course it would, Erik," Gerard exclaimed. "Have you _seen_ it?"

For just a split second Gerard was afraid he had mortally offended his son—and then Erik let out a loud bark of laughter before he could stop himself, and Gerard smiled in relief.

"I've seen it," he admitted, his mood considerably lighter. "Not the best face for a tenor, is it?"

Gerard shook his head. "Not even for a baritone. Pity you don't sing bass; you could play Mephistopheles without makeup. Be the toast of the town."

Erik chuckled. "Perhaps I'll audition next season," he joked. He rose gracefully. "Heaven knows I'm going to have to find some way to support myself, if I am to provide for a wife."

Gerard sighed in relief. "You'll ask her, then?"

Erik nodded. "I'll ask her. Does she know? That you're my father, I mean."

Gerard nodded. "She knows."

There was a few moments of silence, and then Erik glanced back over to his father. "So you'll be at the _Bal Masque_ this evening, then. What sort of costume shall you wear?"

"To be honest, I hadn't given it much thought," Gerard said, startled.

Erik grinned. "I have an idea, if you're interested."

"Oh?"

"You'd have to shave off your moustache, though."

"If the idea is good enough, I will."

"Come on, then," Erik said, rising. "I'll show you." He stopped short and glanced back. "And while we're at it, we can concoct a clever plan for Ledoux to capture me."

"Oh, yes? Any ideas?" Gerard asked, amused.

Erik nodded. "You might tell him, for starters, that I shall be attending the _Bal Masque_ this evening."

* * *

_Author's notes: I stuck a few lines from the stage plan into this chapter, that weren't in the film (the ones about "not a good face for a tenor... or even a baritone"). I so wish I could see "Phantom" on stage! I've seen some stills of one of the productions, and they look absolutely gorgeous._

_If anyone is reading this who hasn't seen the version of Phantom that it's based on, you can find some pictures of these characters at www . charlesdance . co . uk (take out the spaces). Then click on "stalls" and scroll down to "Phantom of the Opera." There are some beautiful photos there, of Erik, Christine, and Gerard._


	15. Ghosts and Death

At twenty minutes to eight, there was a knock on the door of Christine's dressing room. She was just finishing putting up her hair, so she quickly donned her feathered mask and opened the door.

There stood the phantom of the opera, in his black coat and trousers, white ruffled shirt, and long, flowing opera cloak. He wore a plain black mask.

Something was wrong, though; Christine couldn't put her finger on it exactly. Was he angry? Erik only wore the black mask when he was angry. She didn't recognize this mask, though; it wasn't his usual black one. "What happened to Red Death?" she asked.

"He is downstairs, waiting for you in the grand ballroom. I'm to escort you to him, _mademoiselle_," the phantom explained with a bow.

Christine recognized the former manager's voice and burst into a peal of delighted laughter. "M. Carrière! So Death sent a ghost to bring me to him," she remarked. "How appropriate."

"Ah, well, you know his sense of irony," Gerard replied. He offered her his arm and they started down the back stairs toward the ballroom.

"So whose idea was it? Your costume, I mean?"

"His, of course. That sense of irony again; I think he just wanted to tweak the Cholettis a little, and well… I had no objection to that." Gerard's eyes twinkled behind the mask, and Christine smiled.

"You look a lot like him," she noticed. "He's taller, of course, and has a different bearing, but your eyes are the same."

Gerard gave a self-deprecating shrug. "I used to have a somewhat prouder bearing when I was younger, _mademoiselle_, and as to the eyes…" he glanced down at her. "I've just told him, today, that I'm his father."

"You did? How did he take it?"

Gerard chuckled. "He'd known already, because of the eyes, he said. My son is no fool. But now we should change the subject, mademoiselle." There were people on the stairs, and he didn't want to be overheard. "What time are you meeting the count?"

"In about fifteen minutes."

"Erik may listen in, you know," Gerard warned her. "Through the walls."

She looked at him and spread out her hands in an obvious gesture. "Why do you think I chose my dressing room for the talk? I have nothing to hide."

They arrived at the door to the grand ballroom, where there was a queue waiting at the doors. "Shall we go in together, then?" Gerard asked. "Or perhaps _mademoiselle_ would prefer not to be seen with a ghost?"

"I'd be honoured to go in with you, _Monsieur le Fantôme_," Christine said with a smile.

Gerard nodded, and was about to join the queue when he thought of something. He leaned in close to her and whispered, "However the evening ends, mademoiselle, do not worry."

"What do you mean, _monsieur_?" Christine was puzzled, but by the time she asked, Gerard had already stepped up to the front of the queue. Startled, the others fell back and allowed him to go ahead of them.

"Must we be announced?" Gerard asked the footman quietly.

The footman, recognizing the voice of his former employer, nodded with an appreciative twinkle in his eye as he examined Gerard's outfit. "M. Choletti didn't want there to be any confusion."

Gerard sighed. "Doesn't he realize that half the fun is guessing who the guests are supposed to be?"

The footman shrugged infinitesimally. "Nevertheless, he wants everyone announced." He went into formal mode and spoke more loudly. "Now, _monsieur_, if I could have your name, and that of your companion?"

"You may announce me as the Phantom of the Opera," Gerard announced grandly. Christine half-expected a cymbal-crash when he said it.

"Yes, sir. And your companion?"

Christine had heard the last exchange, was struck by a sudden idea. Erik hadn't actually told her who she was supposed to be dressed as, so on a whim she decided to be daring. "Persephone," she told the footman.

Gerard jerked his head to look at her in surprise. He was well-versed enough in Greek mythology to recognize the reference. "_Mademoiselle_?" he asked. Are you sure? Was the question behind his single word.

Christine gave him a decisive nod. "Persephone," she repeated. "Queen of the underworld."

Gerard nodded slowly. With her black-rose-colored dress and black mask and gloves, not to mention her pale, delicate beauty, she certainly fit the part.

The footman turned and bawled out their names into the ballroom. "The Phantom of the Opera, and his companion, Persephone, queen of the underworld!"

The music stopped abruptly, and they walked into the ballroom to see everyone staring at them and starting to whisper. The ballroom was packed with revellers, and Christine would see every face turned toward them. Her smile faltered.

And then she caught sight of a peculiarly-masked white face atop a rich, dark red outfit, and her smile returned.

Red Death was standing all alone in the centre of the room, with all the revellers around him giving him a wide berth. He looked up as if startled when he heard them announced, and then made his way toward them. Partiers fell back out of his way as he moved, his walk smooth, graceful, and lordly. He reached them and bowed, sweeping his plumed hat down to the floor. "_Monsieur le Fantôme_," he greeted. "_Madame_ Persephone." The warm gleam in his grey eyes showed Christine how much he appreciated her name; her choice bore some interesting implications for him.

Gerard bowed. "_Monsieur le Mort Rouge_, good evening."

"Thank you for escorting the lady, _Monsieur le Fantome_," he said with a formal courtesy.

"It was my pleasure, _monsieur_," Gerard replied with good humour. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be about my business."

Erik caught his arm and leaned close. "You'll remember what to do?" he asked in a low voice.

Gerard touched the outside of his breast pocket and nodded. "I remember." He patted Erik's hand, where it rested on his arm. "Have fun tonight, son—but be careful."

Erik nodded, his eyes softening a little at being called "son," and turned to Christine. "_Madame_ Persephone, may I have the next dance?"

Smiling behind her mask, she gave him her hand and he led her onto the floor. She glanced around for Philippe, but saw no one in a white mask. The music started up again and Erik took her into his arms and whirled her away into the throng of dancing couples.


	16. The Let's Just be Friends Speech

Erik danced with as much power and grace as he did everything else, Christine was pleased to note. He was a strong leader, whirling her around effortlessly in his arms until she felt quite breathless and dizzy. When the dance ended, he thanked her for the dance and led her to the edge of the floor and got her a drink.

"Your hopeful suitor should be here any minute," he said. "Christine, there is something I have to tell you."

She took a sip of the punch, watching him over the rim of the cup with worried eyes. "Does it have something to do with what's to happen tonight?"

He nodded. "Did Gerard tell you?"

"No, he only said not to worry, 'whatever happens tonight.' What's going to happen, Erik?"

"Gerard and I have set some things in motion this evening, which, if all goes well, will bring an end to my persecution from the current managers. I can't give you the details, not yet, but I will ask you to please try and keep the Count de Chagny occupied in your dressing room for at least an hour."

"I'll try," Christine replied.

Erik smiled then; she could see his grin showing mischievously through the teeth of his skull mask. "I've left a very nice carafe of wine in your dressing room for you to give him. That should help immensely. And," he added, gently stroking her lower cheek where the mask didn't cover, "It would help me a great deal if you were to refrain from drinking much of it yourself, and try to make him consume the majority of it before you both return here."

He ran his thumb lightly across her lips, and she parted them to take a sudden breath. "Just what are you and your father planning?" she asked coyly, leaning into the caress and giving him a flirtatious, sidelong look.

Erik's eyes darkened at the look, and his hand slid around to the back of her neck as he leaned down close. "Damn this mask," he muttered. "I should dearly love to kiss you right now."

Christine blushed and took his other hand in hers, pressing it to her cheek. She turned her head and brushed a kiss across his knuckles, and then dropped his hand self-consciously and cleared her throat. "So, let me make sure I understand you: I am to keep the count occupied for an hour, pour wine into him, and then return to the ball to meet you?"

"Yes, if you please," Erik said airily. "Shall you be able to, do you think?"

"I'll do my best," she promised. A flash of white caught her eyes. "Oh, look; I think he's here now. Is that him?"

"I believe it is." Erik offered his arm and escorted her over to his rival.

"Christine, is it you?" Philippe asked in a low voice. He was wearing a white cloak and a white mask with lace dripping from its edges. He sounded embarrassed.

She nodded. "Hello, Philippe. Are you ready?"

"Yes," he said, looking askance at her deathly companion. "Who is this?"

"_Le Mort Rouge_," Erik introduced himself with a curt nod. "I presume you're the young man that Her Majesty here was planning to meet for dinner?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall take my leave of you both; Christine, I shall see you back here later." He bowed over Christine's hand, touching his lips gently to the back of it.

"Yes, maestro," she replied without thinking. Erik stiffened, but said nothing as he nodded and turned to go.

"Maestro?" Philippe asked, catching her arm. "Who is he, Christine?"

She sighed. She hadn't meant to say that! "Come with me, Philippe; I'll tell you in my dressing room." She took his arm and they ducked out the side door. Philippe snagged a passing servant and ordered some dinner brought to Mlle. Daée's dressing room, and they headed back up the stairs.

"Now then, Christine, what is all this? Why wouldn't you come to my chateau? Who is that man you were dancing with? Why did you call him 'Maestro'? Why have you been avoiding me?" Philippe demanded once Christine had closed the door behind him. He took off his lacy mask and glowered at it. "I look ridiculous in that," he griped under his breath as he tossed it aside.

Christine said nothing, but went straight to her dresser and picked up the carafe of wine. Two glasses stood on either side of it, and she hid her smile as she turned back to her friend. Erik had thought of everything. "Philippe, would you pour this out please? I promise, I'll tell you as much as I can, but I'd like this to be a nice dinner between two old friends. Please don't turn it into an interrogation!"

"I'm sorry. You're right," Philippe said, taking the carafe. "It's just that I've missed you so much, and I've been worried about you." He poured out the wine and handed her a glass. He raised his with a smile. "To us!"

Christine returned his smile, but clarified, "To our friendship!"

They drank. Philippe sipped, then sipped again, and finally took a couple of large gulps that almost emptied the glass.

"Mmm, this wine is wonderful! Thank you, Christine," Philippe said. He put his glass down and went to her, leaning in for a kiss.

She turned her head so that it landed on her cheek instead of her lips. "I'm glad you like it, Philippe, but we need to talk."

"Apparently we do," he replied with a slight frown. He absently poured himself some more wine. He offered to refill Christine's glass, but hers was still nearly full. "What happened with us, Christine?" he asked mournfully. "I thought you were as much in love with me as I was with you."

"Sit down, and let me tell you about when I first came here," Christine suggested. "After you and I talked at the country fair and you told me to come here, I used all the rest of my money to travel to Paris. I arrived in the middle of the night and had nowhere to sleep; I ended up sleeping in the train station and walking here the next morning. I asked for M. Carrière, but was told that he'd only just been dismissed! I had nowhere to go, no food, no money, and now no one who would help me."

Philippe looked pained. "Christine, I am so sorry! If I had known—"

She held up her hand to stop him speaking. "It worked out for the best, Philippe, really it did."

"Oh? How?" He sipped at his wine.

"Jean-Claude helped get me the job as La Carlotta's costume girl, and he let me stay here, in the opera house, in one of the upper cellars. My first night here, someone heard me singing, someone who worked here. He's a musician, and he began giving me voice lessons. After a month or two, I didn't know myself when I sang because my voice had improved so much."

"Your maestro," Philippe guessed, looking sharply at her over the rim of his glass.

She nodded. "He made me swear not to tell anyone. He's a very private man, and he didn't want all the others clamouring for lessons as well; also, he didn't want to get in trouble with the new managers. M. Carrière wouldn't have minded, since I found out they're friends, but my maestro didn't want to have to answer to the Cholettis."

"I don't blame him for that," Philippe agreed, refilling his glass. He glanced at Christine's—no, she still had plenty—and took another sip.

There was a knock on the door, and Christine called for the servant to enter. He brought in a tray piled high with roast chicken, bread, sauce, vegetables, and some fruit and cheese for dessert. Christine laid the table and fussed a little bit, serving them both and taking a single sip of her own wine before sitting down at her little table opposite Philippe.

He drained his cup before taking a bite of chicken. "So why did you start avoiding me? I thought, after you sang at the Bistro, that everything was good between us."

Christine shrugged helplessly. "You returned so suddenly, Philippe, and I had already established myself here. I had my job, I had some friends, and I was actually getting the singing lessons I had wanted. Then you came back and threw the party at the Bistro, and my teacher was so happy for me, so eager for me to make my debut! I was nervous, but he talked to me, convinced me I could do it. He even gave me my dress for that evening, and helped me get ready. I was supposed to come right back here to tell him about it afterwards, because he doesn't go out much, but then you wanted to go for a carriage ride and all. And Philippe, I was just so overcome with the memories that I just went along with you. I was swept away, remembering my dear playmate—you're the only other person I know now, who remembers my father—and perhaps I allowed things I should not have allowed." Eyes downcast in maidenly modesty, she flushed a little and ate in silence.

"I see," said Philippe, sounding hollow. "So what you're telling me is that… my feelings toward you are not reciprocated?"

Christine looked back up at him with a compassionate expression. "I am sorry, Philippe. You'll always have a special place in my heart—as my childhood friend, and as someone else who loved my father, and I would like to be able to count on your friendship, but you must not assume any more than that. Please. I am sorry."

Philippe refilled his glass again. "I think I need more wine." He ate quietly for a few minutes, eyes glued to his plate, until he finally pushed it away with a gusty sigh.

"So there's someone else, then," he surmised.

Eyes still downcast, Christine nodded. He took a gulp of wine.

"Your maestro, I'm assuming?"

She nodded again.

"Damn him." Philippe stared at his plate morosely. Another gulp.

Christine giggled a little, in spite of herself. "You speak as if you don't have at least a dozen 'someone elses' of your own, dear. You can't exactly have been pining for me. Not with the entire _corps de ballet_ wearing your face in their lockets!"

Philippe laughed a little, embarrassed. "None of them are like you, though!" he protested with a rueful grin.

"I should hope not!" Christine teased, enjoying his discomfiture.

He cleared his throat. "So, tell me about this maestro of yours," he asked. "Is he in love with you?"

Christine nodded shyly. "He is. I don't deserve him, and I know my night out with you must have hurt him dreadfully even though he hadn't told me of his feelings yet by that point. But that's why I tried to avoid you afterwards—I couldn't bear to cause him any more pain."

"Why didn't you just tell me? I was getting desperate to hear from you."

Christine's gentle blue eyes took on an angry glitter. "Yes, so I heard. So desperate you arranged to have me kidnapped?"

Philippe hung his head. "I'm so sorry, Christine! I had no idea they were going to… do that to you! I just wanted them to bring you to my chateau, so that we could talk! I'm so sorry."

Christine saw his remorse and relented. "Well, luckily my maestro was there and took care of them for me before I got badly hurt. So let's not talk any more about it."

"He 'took care of them'?" Philippe asked suspiciously. "How? What happened?"

"He had been riding by in a carriage and heard me scream. He went after both men who attacked me, beat them senseless, and left them there in the street. Then he brought me back to his house because no one else was home at my flat, and took care of me until I was better."

"His house, hmm?" Philippe smirked and raised an eyebrow.

Christine's chin went up. "Yes, his house, and don't you be thinking such things about him, Philippe de Chagny! He was extremely respectful! He treats me like a queen."

"So who is this paragon of gentility?" he asked. "Where is his house?"

"That is his business."

"What is his name?"

"Also his business."

"What does he do here, in the opera house? You said he worked here; what does he do?"

"Philippe, you _did_ hear me say that he was an extremely private man, did you not? Why do you want to know all these things?" Christine started to get worried. Philippe was beginning to show signs of tipsiness (the wine was 2/3 gone, she was glad to note) and she decided it was time to distract him.

"If you want to know more about him, you can ask M. Carrière, who has been his friend for years. My maestro hasn't given me permission to divulge any personal information about him, especially to you, whom he doesn't like because of the kidnapping."

"Then why did he bring you over to me and let us go off together? For all he knows, I could be taking advantage of you right now!"

She shook her head. "I told him you would never do that. I explained that the kidnapping was an aberration in your character. I also told him that my loyalties lie with him, and that he could trust me. He does."

Philippe nodded heavily, several times. The wine was definitely beginning to hit him. "Good. Good." He blinked and leaned over closer, to gaze earnestly into her eyes. "Are you happy with him, Christine? Does this mysterious tutor of yours make you happy?"

She nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, very."

Philippe heaved a big sigh. "Then I can see the only action open to me as a gentleman is to get out of the way."

She put her hand on top of his on the table. "I'm sorry, Philippe."

He shrugged. "No matter. If he makes you happy, then…" he shrugged. "And you did say you wanted to keep my friendship, didn't you?" He stared owlishly at her.

"Yes, please, if it's not too painful for you."

He rose to his feet and saluted her, a little wobbly. "Then, mademoiselle, I am yours to command. Tell me, what may I do for you?"

Christine got an idea. "Well… my maestro has found the new managers very difficult to work for—and in fact, they have not been good for the opera house in general. Philippe, as our biggest patron, you have a lot of power. Couldn't you pull some strings at the _Academie Nationale_, and get M. Carrière put back in charge?"

"Perhaps," Philippe was looking thoughtful now. He took another drink. "The Cholettis had no business getting him sacked in the first place—he's the best thing that ever happened to this place."

"The second-best, perhaps," Christine qualified with a smile.

Philippe grinned at her suddenly. "Right, right. I forgot about your precious maestro. Well, sweetheart, I'll see what I can do." He paused to empty his wine glass, and then turned back to Christine, looking suspicious.

"Is your precious maestro going to marry you, then?"

Christine lowered her gaze and flushed. "I—I don't know. He hasn't mentioned it."

Philippe scowled. "And yet, he's already compromised you by having you spend the night at his house."

Christine lifted her chin. "He's an honourable man, Philippe. He would never take advantage of me—and since no one knows about this except him and me—and now you—my reputation shan't be compromised unless _you_ tell someone." There was a definite challenge in her tone.

"Christine, I just want to make sure he's good enough for you! That's all. If you're in love with this mysterious musician who has no intention of marrying you, you'll only end up hurt. I just don't want you to be hurt."

Christine subsided. "Well, I haven't known for very long that I am in love with him." She continued thoughtfully, "Perhaps he is just giving me time to get used to the idea. There _have_ been one or things I've had to get used to." She smiled a little to herself, enjoying her private joke, and then looked back up at Philippe. "But he is a man of honour. Of that I am sure."

"Even so, though… promise me that if you ever need me for anything, you'll come to me." He grinned, a sad, tipsy, lopsided grin. "Especially if you end up needing me for a husband!"

Christine laughed. "It won't be necessary, but I promise." She patted Philippe's hand affectionately and shook out her napkin. "Think we ought to be heading back, then?"

Philippe extended a hand to her, and pulled her up close to him. "Here," he said thickly, putting his arms around here. "Just for old times' sake."

Christine gave him a brief hug and then stepped back. "We should head back down." She fixed her mask back in place and handed Philippe his white lacy one.

He shoved the mask back on so it sat slightly askew on his face, and offered her his arm with a goofy grin. "Your wish is my command."

* * *

_A/N: So what have Erik and Gerard been doing while Christine and Philippe were having dinner? What evil plans have they concocted? Is Philippe ever going to realize his mask is crooked?_

_The answers to these questions and more await you in the next chapter! So tune in next time: same ghost time, same ghost channel!_

_(Oh, dear, I know I just dated myself something 'orrible!)_

_Anyway... Eariwen, Erik's Red Death costume uses his full-head skull mask from the Charles Dance movie, the long, embroidered train from the Leroux novel, and for the rest of it I'm picturing the red-and-gold "Red Death" outfit that Robert Englund sported in the 1989 horror version. Englund had the very best and coolest-lookingRed Death costume that I've ever seen on film, so that's what I'm using as a baseline._


	17. Beginning the Dance

_Author's note: Due to an unforseen plot twist, I have had to go back and re-write these next few chapters: 17-20. If you have read them before, please re-read them before going on to chapter 21 because the timing and the plot has changed. Sorry for the inconvenience!_

* * *

Watching Christine leave the ballroom on the arm of his rival made Erik glower darkly through his mask at their departing backs. Then he recalled himself and glanced around the ballroom. He couldn't afford any distractions tonight, not if he was to carry out his plan.

Item one: Gerard. Oh, there he was in the front corner, waiting for the Cholettis to arrive. Good, he was properly placed.

Item two: Police Inspector Ledoux. Erik spun around on his heel, his red cloak twirling around him as he scanned the room for Ledoux. Ah, there he was, near one of the secret doorways. Erik nodded in satisfaction. If he would only stay there, Erik's plans would be much easier to get underway.

Item three was just arriving, draped in dark pink furs and wearing something on her head that looked as if it had been tortured and draped in flowers before it died. Carlotta Choletti entered on the arm of her husband who was all in white and wearing a silver mask. She wore a matching gold one. The footman announced them as, "Lord Winter and Lady Spring!"

Erik smiled to himself behind his mask, and touched his waistcoat pocket: yes, the small box was still there. Choletti saw Ledoux and made a beeline for him, leaving Carlotta unguarded. Erik nodded to Gerard, who nodded back and pushed himself away from the wall.

Gerard approached Carlotta, mimicking Erik's confident stride. The music began, and Gerard came right up behind Carlotta in a promenade position, so that the two of them were swept up in the dance before she had even seen him.

"Forgive me, _madame_, but I simply got carried away at the sight of your beauty," he murmured in her ear.

Carlotta smiled and preened. "Ah, _monsieur_, be careful that your impetuousness does not make my husband jealous!"

"But how could it, _madame_, when he doesn't even know?" Gerard released her waist and pointed to where Choletti was berating a longsuffering Ledoux. "He is too busy with his harangue to even be aware that his wife is consorting with…" he spun her around to face him, and smiled at her. "…ghosts."

Carlotta sucked in a noisy breath, preparing to scream. Gerard tightened his grip on her and shook his head sharply. "No screaming, if you please, _madame_. I'm not going to harm you, unless you scream."

"Wha—what do you want from me?" asked Carlotta in a quavering voice.

"For now? Just a dance," Gerard promised.

Erik, making his way slowly over toward Ledoux and Choletti, heard the exchange and admired his father's aplomb. He reached into his waistcoat pocket for the small box, and as he passed the couple, Gerard turned her so that Carlotta had her back to Erik. Erik swiftly emptied the contents of the box onto her tall and flowery headdress. Then he continued on without looking back.

He drew near Choletti and Ledoux, enough to overhear Choletti's furious demands to know what Ledoux was doing to capture the phantom.

"_Monsieur_, I assure you, I am doing all I can," came Ledoux's patient voice.

"Well, it'sa not enough!" Choletti snapped. "This…this thing 'as threatened my beloved. Threatened my Carlotta! My wife'sa safety is atta stake!"

Erik took one step closer and interrupted the conversation. "Then why do you leave her thus unprotected?" he asked mildly.

"What?" Choletti demanded. "Who are you?"

Erik inclined his head toward the dance floor. "If I were you, I'd be more interested in finding out who was dancing with my wife."

Choletti glanced over and saw Carlotta, white-faced with fear, in the arms of the "phantom of the opera." He let out an incoherent bellow of rage that caught Gerard's attention. He let go of Carlotta, stepped back, and melted into the crowd. Choletti tried to find him, but was forced to stop and tend to his hysterical wife—who became that much more hysterical when she felt one of the spiders crawl from her headdress down her neck to the back of her dress.

Erik snickered, and to his surprise, so did Ledoux. Their eyes met in a moment of sympathy and humour.

Ledoux shook his head. "That wasn't the real phantom," he confided to his new friend.

Erik nodded. "I know. For one thing, I doubt the phantom would come to a masquerade as himself!"

Ledoux chuckled. "He'd have far too much style for that," he agreed.

Erik grinned behind his mask. He stepped closer and leaned over to speak to Ledoux confidentially. "I am curious, Inspector, whether you would be as eager to catch the phantom if Choletti was not threatening your job?"

Ledoux frowned. "I don't know how you know that, _monsieur_, and with respect, I don't know what business it is of yours. If you are implying that I would willingly let a criminal go unpunished—"

Erik held up a placating, black-gloved hand. "Forgive me, Inspector; I never meant to imply that. It is just that there has been a phantom here for so many years, and there haven't been any… 'incidents'… until the Cholettis took charge. I just wonder what it is about the Cholettis that suddenly necessitate the police inspector having his own office here."

Ledoux sighed, unhappy. "If Choletti hadn't insisted we go down there on some wild-goose chase after Miss Daée, then I would have been content to leave things as they were. After all, Miss Daée did return unharmed. But now, in addition to his harmless (and may I say, highly entertaining) pranks on La Carlotta, the phantom has killed two of my own men. There is no way I could let it go now, even if I wanted to."

"I see," Erik replied, not without regret. Knowing this, he had no choice now but to see his plans through to the end, tonight. He bowed to Ledoux and snuck out through the hidden door behind him. He had to go check on Christine.

He arrived at his listening spot behind her mirror just as Christine was telling Philippe about her "maestro" beating up her attackers. When Philippe made his grand statement about getting out of the way as long as Christine was happy with her maestro, the aforementioned maestro smiled to himself, pleased that Christine was in no danger, and started back to the ballroom. It was almost time for Gerard to be back from his spy mission.

When he arrived, Gerard wasn't there yet, so he stationed himself behind the wall that Ledoux was leaning against, and settled in to have a chat with the good Inspector.


	18. Plots and Plans

_Author's note: Due to an unforseen plot twist, I have had to go back and re-write the following chapters: 17-20. If you have read them before, please re-read them before going on to chapter 21 because the timing and the plot has changed. Sorry for the inconvenience!_

* * *

Gerard heard Choletti's bellow of rage and quickly let go of Carlotta. He disappeared into the crowd, snickering to himself when he heard Carlotta's terrified shrieks. He was beginning to see the appeal Erik found in this haunting business! He ducked out the side door and headed for the manager's office.

He passed a few partygoers on the way, and got a couple of amused and appreciative comments about his costume. He thanked them politely, and one of them, a stagehand, recognised his voice and started laughing. "I know you're still around here a lot after your dismissal, Monsieur Carrière, but I wouldn't have called it _haunting_!"

Gerard laughed. "Ghosts come in all shapes," he replied lightly. "And haunt for all sorts of reasons. Go and enjoy the ball, my friend."

As soon as the coast was clear, he stole into the manager's office and began rifling through the files. Most of them were his own, but he could see Choletti had added and rearranged a few things.

He wanted to find out what sort of hold Choletti had over Ledoux. He also wanted to find out whether there was anything that could be held over Choletti in return. He went through all the drawers in Choletti's desk, but found nothing.

Then he looked down at the desk and blinked. There it was, right out in plain sight. He picked up the letter that Choletti had evidently just finished writing and left there to dry, and read it quickly.

_My dearest Clemence,_

_You really must have a talk with that husband of yours. Ledoux has been wandering around my opera for weeks and still hasn't caught that phantom! If he doesn't find him soon, I might be forced to call in his debt all at once._

_I am sure neither of you wants it known that his debts are so high—or the reasons behind them. Honestly, my dear, two hundred thousand francs is rather a lot of money for a police inspector to have to come up with. What a lucky man, that he has such a beautiful wife who is willing to help him "work off" his debt, as it were._

_My terms of payment remain the same: meet me at the same address as before, in the afternoon when my wife is napping. For every time we meet, I shall deduct 20 francs from your husband's debt to me. The choice is yours, but if I were you I would encourage him to find and catch my pestilential ghost. As long as the theatre remains haunted, I find myself lacking a certain "interest" in seeing you and reducing the debt._

_I look forward to your reply._

_Alain Choletti_

Gerard's jaw dropped. So Ledoux owed money to Choletti, and was prostituting his wife to pay it off? This was indeed interesting. He never would have thought Ledoux a man to do such a thing. He flipped to the next page.

_My dear M. Poligny:_

_Thank you so much for your assistance in arranging the "early retirement" of Gerard Carrière, and my subsequent placement as the Opera manager. I am sure you will not mind my writing to you, now that our deal is complete and the Opera is mine. I shan't bother you again, unless you try to pull my strings again._

_We both know it is I who shall be pulling yours, unless you want the world—including your wife—to know about your son. Discretion is recommended, Poligny; take care._

_Alain Choletti_

Ah, now that explained a lot. Poligny was the director of _l'Academie Nationale_, and to the best of Gerard's knowledge, he had no children. He must have got an illegimate son on someone, and Choletti was blackmailing him so his wife wouldn't find out.

Choletti seemed like quite the little blackmailer, Gerard thought with disgust. Quickly he flipped through the remainder of the papers, but the rest of the papers were just bills and business letters from opera patrons.

Gerard pocketed the two letters and went to work on the wooden cabinet on the wall; he flipped through the papers contained therein and found nothing. Hmmm. Just as an experiment, he took them out and then reached back into the cabinet. Would Choletti have discovered the secret compartment in the back?

Aha! There was something there. He reached in and pulled it out, and then gasped and nearly dropped it.

It was one of Erik's old child-size masks.

Where on earth had Choletti found it? Gerard held it up to the light, remembering when he had given it to him; Erik had been about ten, and had been complaining that his fabric mask was too hot and was hard to see through. Gerard had bought a child-size stage mask that was molded like a face and had large eye holes—it turned out to be the style Erik continued to use after that—and had written a quick note on the inside. Remembering, he turned it over in his hands—sure enough, the note was still there, albeit much faded.

_Dear Erik,_

_I hope this mask is more comfortable than your old one. Happy birthday._

_Gerard_

Hand shaking with emotion, Gerard looked back into the secret compartment; it was empty now except for a scrap of paper which he pulled out to read.

_Choletti,_

_No, I have not forgotten my business here at the opera. I look forward to seeing your proof that Carrière knows the phantom—myself, I find it hard to believe._

_Please believe me that I have not forgotten; I am doing my best to discharge my debt to you. And while we are on the subject of debts, your latest "reminder" had a smaller total than last month's—smaller by more than 100 francs. Why have you reduced the amount owed?_

_I will come to see your "proof" first thing Monday morning after the Bal Masque._

_Until then I remain,_

_Your humble servant,_

_Henri Ledoux_

Gerard swore, and swore again. Choletti was using Ledoux's wife without Ledoux even knowing! What a villain! He had known Henri and Clemence Ledoux for years, and knew how much in love they were—now Choletti was trading on that love, and probably planning to blackmail Clemence Ledoux with evidence of their _liasons_! For just a moment, his mind was so caught up in outrage on the Ledoux's behalf that he didn't even think of what it meant for himself.

Then he blinked and read the note again. Choletti was planning to blackmail _him_, as well! The _proof_ had to be the mask in his hands, with his name on it. Shaking his head quickly, he shoved the mask inside his coat and the note into his pocket.

Choletti was a worse fiend than he had ever accused Erik of being! He had to be stopped, discredited somehow, and Ledoux… something had to be done about Ledoux. Gerard resolved to show them to Erik and figure out what they could do.

He left the office carefully and opened the door to the nearest secret passage. He left the mask and papers in the tunnel where no one would find them before he returned.

Then it was back to the ballroom. Erik was nowhere to be found, so wandered over to talk to Ledoux.

"Good evening, Inspector," he said.

Ledoux jumped. "Wha—who?" he gasped.

Gerard nodded to him. "Don't you know your old friend, then?" he smiled gently.

Ledoux shook his head. "Gerard. I might have known it was you dressed up as the phantom!" He took out his handkerchief and mopped his glistening forehead.

"If you'll forgive me, Ledoux, you seem a little nervous this evening. Are you not having a good time?"

"Who could have a good time, with Choletti breathing down their necks?" Ledoux seemed uncharacteristically jumpy. Gerard hadn't heard him sound this agitated before.

"Henri… old friend, is there anything I can do to help?" Gerard asked. "If Choletti is forcing you into anything…" he let the sentence trail off, not knowing how to encourage the inspector to confide in him.

"There is something you can do, Gerard," Ledoux's voice hardened. "You can tell me everything you know about the phantom!"

"Why, what do I know about the phantom?" Gerard asked innocently.

"I don't know," Ledoux replied, his voice sarcastic, "But perhaps you can tell me why he was talking to me through the walls just now, and making threats?"

"He was threatening you?" Gerard questioned, stunned. Erik hadn't said anything about threatening Ledoux.

"Ah, no. Not exactly. He was threatening Choletti."

"He was talking to you, here, and making threats to harm Choletti?"

"Yes."

Before he could stop himself, Gerard shrugged and asked, "So why not let him?"

For just an instant, such an expression of naked hope flashed over Ledoux's face that Gerard was startled; but then, like any Parisian, he masked it immediately and gave a pained smile. "You're joking. For just a moment there I almost believed you."

"What, exactly, was the phantom saying? And how do you know it was him?"

"He asked me to stop my pursuit of him. He said he was sorry about my men, but he hadn't killed them; they had just blundered into his traps. Then he told me…" Ledoux hesitated, but then went on, more quietly. "He told me that if I didn't leave him alone he'd be forced to kill Choletti." Ledoux quirked one corner of his mouth. "That's how I knew it was him. Choletti told me the phantom hates him!"

"That's hardly conclusive, though. Everyone does," Gerard pointed out dryly. He thought over Erik's words to the inspector. "So, either you end your investigation or Choletti dies?"

"That's what he told me; but you see, there are other factors here, Gerard. I cannot simply end my investigation—two of my men were killed! I must produce the killer, or else…"

"Or else you'll be sacked," Gerard guessed.

Ledoux nodded. "And I need this job, Gerard! You have no idea how much I need this job! I have…" he swallowed uncomfortably. "You see, I was once unwise with my gaming, and I have… debts, that I must pay."

"Yes," Gerard replied grimly. "Choletti has things he must pay for, too, many of them. So what will you do?"

"I must find and arrest the phantom, now, tonight—before he can get to Choletti. I just wish I knew who he was." He glanced sharply at Gerard. "I'm sure you could help me with that if you wanted to."

Gerard gestured around the room. "My friend, everyone here is wearing a mask tonight. How could I possibly help?"

He saw a flash of red at the doorway and bowed to Ledoux. "If you'll excuse me, Ledoux, I must have a word with someone. Please, though, remember what I said. If you ever wish to discuss anything, you know I can keep a confidence."

"Yes, _that_ much I know. Your lips are sealed on a number of subjects!" Ledoux said sarcastically. Then he relented and held out his hand. "Thank you, my friend."

Ledoux had looked about nervously when he heard the ghost talking to him through the walls, but had answered him fairly politely. Then Gerard arrived and Erik fell silent, listening hard to every word. Debts, hmm? He wondered whether he could make something out of that. He had to talk with Gerard, to regroup and see what he found out from his snooping. Gerard's grim comment about Choletti having many things to pay for made him suspicious. He didn't get the impression his father was talking only about getting dismissed.

He had to talk to Gerard, and he had to plan his next move and carry it out before Christine came down from talking with that boy. He made his way back through the passage to the entrance, and then sauntered down to the doorway of the ballroom. He peered into the ballroom until he caught Gerard's eye, and watched as Gerard excused himself from Ledoux and came over.


	19. Pas de Deux

_Author's note: Due to an unforseen plot twist, I have had to go back and re-write the following chapters: 17-20. If you have read them before, please re-read them before going on to chapter 21 because the timing and the plot has changed.

* * *

_

"Did you find anything?" Erik asked his father in a low voice as they went along a darkened corridor together.

Gerard nodded. "Manager's passage," he said cryptically.

Erik nodded, and led the way toward the manager's office. Before he reached it, he stepped into an alcove and reached up toward the molding above the door to press a button; suddenly one panel of the alcove slid away. Gerard went into the dark passage, and Erik quickly scanned the corridor for onlookers before ducking through the secret door himself.

The door slid shut behind them, leaving them in total blackness. He spoke to Gerard. "What is going on, then… Father?" he asked calmly.

"Just a minute; I know I left them around here somewhere." There was a light scratching sound, and then Gerard's face was illuminated by the tiny, fitful flame of a Lucifer match. "Ah, here they are."

Erik reached up out of sight to a dark shelf he had installed, and brought down a candle. He lit it with the match, which Gerard blew out and dropped to the floor.

"Here you go," Gerard said, handing him the papers. The mask he kept in his hand, hidden behind his leg.

Erik handed the candle to Gerard, who held it up so he could read the documents. He scanned them quickly, silently, and then gave a disgusted snort. "What a cad," was his understated summation. "And he calls _me_ the monster!" He looked at Ledoux's quick note to Choletti, and then his gaze flicked back to toward Gerard. "What proof?" he demanded.

Gerard handed him the mask. Erik turned it over and read the note inside, and growled. He reached up and put the mask on the high shelf where he'd found the candle, and then sighed. "Any ideas?"

"A few," Gerard said.

"I could just kill Choletti," Erik offered. "That would get him off everyone's backs."

"I'm sure Ledoux would notice he's missing, though, and then he'd be down after you twice as much as before," Gerard pointed out. "What would be better is if we silence Choletti somehow, and then inform Ledoux and let him arrest him for blackmail."

"…And Choletti would then boast that he's had Clemence Ledoux at least…" Erik consulted the letter in his hands. "Six times. Ledoux says it's more than a 100-franc reduction." He gazed at his father, shaking his head. "If Ledoux has to find out about that at all, it shouldn't be from the piece of slime who did it."

Gerard sighed. "I will take these letters to Ledoux and tell him, then. Except this one. Here," he handed Erik the letter from Ledoux about the "proof" that Choletti had. "Now, how can we manage this so that Ledoux will call off his search for you?"

Erik thought a moment. "Why not simply pay his debt to Choletti? If Ledoux is in my debt for such a large amount, he won't be all that eager to expose me."

"Erik, it's two hundred thousand francs!"

Erik shrugged. "It's not as if I have much else to spend my money on. And anyway, it's not as if Choletti will be actually _keeping_ the money."

"What do you mean?"

Erik grinned; Gerard could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "We'll get a receipt from Choletti for the full amount, and then I'll simply steal it back."

Gerard shrugged and nodded. It was almost elegant in its simplicity. "But how can we keep Choletti quiet about it?"

"Oh, that's easy," Erik said. "I'll just _threaten_ to kill him."

"_Just_ threaten him?" Gerard pressed.

Erik nodded. "If all goes well with Christine tonight, Gerard, I'll be a man with a future for once. I won't start it off with a killing. You have my word."

"All right, then. Let me to talk to Ledoux, and you can handle Choletti. Shall we meet in the manager's office in… a half an hour, perhaps?"

Erik scoffed, "That is more than enough time for what I have in mind, Gerard; I may fall asleep if you take that long."

Gerard shot a sharp look at him, but Erik only blinked innocently and gathered up the papers. "Here you are," he handed them to his father. "If you see Choletti, you may wish to let him know that he has a client waiting to see him in his office."

Gerard took the papers and stopped to grin at his son. He reached out and patted Erik's masked cheek with one hand. "Be careful," he advised, "but have fun!"

Erik blew out the candle. "Oh, don't worry," he replied darkly. "I will."

"Shall I bring Ledoux back up here with me, then?"

"That would be best. Give me at least fifteen minutes alone with Choletti, though."

"I will." Gerard pressed the button that opened the shadowed doorway of the passage, and cautiously stuck his head out to check for passersby. The corridor was empty, but he could hear the distinct sound of Choletti's voice, coming closer. "Hurry," he urged Erik, stepping out. Erik followed him silently, and brushed past him to go wait in Choletti's office.

Gerard waited around the corner for Choletti and his companion to approach; listening hard, he detected Ledoux's voice answering Choletti's rant with uncomfortable single-syllable responses. Just as they reached the corner, he stepped out and faced them.

"Aaahh!" Choletti screamed, recoiling. "It'sa the phantom!"

"Please pardon the intrusion, _messieurs_," Gerard said politely. "Ledoux, I must speak with you right away."

"Carrière?" Choletti whispered, pale-faced and trembling. "Why are you dressed as the phantom?"

Gerard sighed impatiently. "Why not? It's as good a costume as any. Ledoux, I really must speak to you, _now_."

"Of course. You will excuse me, Choletti; Gerard and I must talk." The two of them turned to leave, but then Gerard turned back. "Oh, Choletti—I think there is someone in your office who wanted to have a word with you."


	20. The Reign of Terror Ends

_A/N: I have completely re-written this story from chapter 17 onward. If you have previously read chapters 17-19, you should go back and re-read them because the content has been totally changed and this one won't make any sense to you. So go on, then, go on back and start reading chapter 17. I'll wait right here._

* * *

Erik sat in the manager's chair, his long red cloak tossed negligently over one shoulder and his black-booted feet crossed, resting on Choletti's desk. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms as well, smiling a little in anticipation.

Choletti came in and closed the door behind him. Seeing Erik ensconced quite comfortably behind his own desk, his mouth opened and closed in silent outrage a few times before he finally demanded, "WHO are you?"

"No one in particular," Erik replied. "A friend of a friend, you might say. Sit down."

"B—but you're in my chair!" Choletti whined.

"No matter," Erik replied. His voice took on an edge of menace as he indicated one of the guest chairs, one with sturdy arms and a high back. "Sit. Down."

Somehow realizing that his guest was no one to trifle with, Choletti sat down, grumbling.

"Now, then," Erik said, swinging his legs down and rising in one graceful motion. "It has come to my attention that a certain police inspector owes you quite a lot of money… and that you haven't been entirely scrupulous about how you've been collecting it."

Choletti's panicked eyes darted over to his desk; sure enough, the letters he'd left there were gone.

"It has also come to my attention that you gained your present post through, shall we say, rather disreputable means." Erik slowly approached Choletti's chair, step by menacing step. "Tsk, tsk, Choletti. Blackmailing the _directeur_ of _l'Academie Nationale_?" He circled Choletti's chair, shaking his head. "It's clear that something is going to have to be done about this."

* * *

"Now then, Gerard, have you finally decided to tell me what you know about the phantom?" Ledoux asked quietly as the two men wandered down yet another darkened corridor. They got to the small room Ledoux had been using as an office, and went in. Ledoux turned up the lights. 

Gerard sat down and took off Erik's black mask. He smiled without mirth. "No. I'm going to tell you what I know about Choletti."

Ledoux, about to sit down at his desk, paused in mid-gesture and looked up sharply. "What about him?" There was an edge of fear in his voice.

For answer, Gerard handed him Choletti's letter to Poligny. "He's a blackmailer. That's how he got this job. I know he's got you in his power too, Ledoux, because of the two hundred thousand francs you owe him. Oh, don't worry," he said, holding up a hand to reassure the detective. "You have my word that this will go no further. But I'm afraid there's more."

"More?"

"Yes. I found out why he debited 100 francs from your last bill."

Ledoux frowned. "Why?"

Gerard looked pained. "I am truly sorry, Henri," he said, giving him Choletti's letter to Clemence.

Ledoux scanned the letter with growing horror, and then went back and read it again. He turned pale. "I'm going to kill him," he muttered. "How could he do this to her?" He buried his face in his hands and wept.

Gerard patted him on the shoulder with a sympathetic hand. He hated himself for having to bear the bad news.

"Clemence, my Clemence—how could she?" Ledoux sobbed, shoulders shaking.

"I am very sorry, Henri; I'm sure she thought she was helping you." Gerard waited until the inspector's heart-wrenching sobs calmed down, and then he said, "There's more I have to tell you, but that was the worst of it."

"Thank God for small favours," Ledoux said sardonically. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and tried to pull himself together. "What other good news do you have for me, Gerard?" He couldn't quite keep the sarcasm from his tone.

"The other thing is that you have a benefactor. Your debt to Choletti is being paid for you, even as we speak: paid in full, and with no obligation for you to repay it. It's all arranged."

Ledoux's jaw dropped. "Wha—who? Who would do such a thing? Do I know him?"

"I know him, and that's all you have to know."

Ledoux knew in an instant that Gerard was talking about the phantom... but he was hardly in a position at that moment to take issue with it.

Gerard went on talking."Now, what my friend and I would like to know is, are you going to arrest Choletti for blackmail and fraud?"

Ledoux sprang to his feet. "Arrest him? Hell, yes, I'll arrest him! I'll arrest him right this minute! Where is he?" He stopped. "Oh, wait—you said there was someone waiting to see him in his office, didn't you?" He almost hoped it had been the phantom there, waiting to "talk" with Choletti.

"I did. If we hurry, maybe we can still catch him there." Gerard put his mask back on.

They went out and walked briskly back to the manager's office. Ledoux pushed the door open gently. There was an infuriated squeak from inside, and he stuck his head in to look. "Ah, M. Choletti," he greeted, opening the door wide and ushering Gerard inside with him. "Glad you're still here; I've been wanting a word with you."

Choletti was bound quite firmly to his chair, and gagged with his own handkerchief. His eyes bugged out of his head, and a vein in his temple was twitching. Hundred-franc notes were stuffed into his pockets and overflowing onto the floor. He twitched and strained against the ropes that held him, while shrill squeaks and yelps issued from behind the gag. Ledoux betrayed no surprise, but some small satisfaction at the sight.

"Ledoux, look at this." Gerard pointed toward the desk where three fresh letters sat drying.

Careful not to smudge the ink, Ledoux picked up the first one. "Received from Henri Ledoux… two hundred thousand francs…" he mumbled his way through it until he reached the end, "Many thanks and best wishes for your continued success… your humble servant, Alain Choletti." He glanced down at the hundred-franc notes littering the floor, and smirked. "I see you got your payment without any trouble."

Wordlessly, Gerard handed him the next letter. Ledoux read it aloud. "To whom it may concern: I, Alain Choletti, being unqualified for the post to which I was raised, now reinstate Gerard Carrière as manager of the Opera. I humbly apologize to M. Poligny and _les directeurs_ for my presumption in demanding the position, and for forcing M. Poligny's hand through blackmail. Your humble servant, Alain Choletti."

Ledoux started to smile. "Poligny as well, Choletti?" he said lightly. "My, you have been a busy man! Never mind, though; you shall have plenty of time to relax in prison."

Gerard handed him the last letter.

"Another one? What's this one say?" Ledoux asked. He read that one aloud as well. "It was through my own negligence that Mm. Robert and LaChaille were killed in the cellars of the opera. I carelessly ordered them below, knowing that it is unsafe for anyone not familiar with the cellars to go down there, and when they were killed I blamed the 'phantom of the opera' instead of having the courage to confess my own fault. I now withdraw any accusation and complaint I made against the man or spectral apparition who may or may not reside in the cellars. Signed, Alain Choletti."

"Ah." Ledoux said briskly to the constrained and livid Choletti. "Lovely. I'll call off my men, then, and get out of your hair—" he stopped and bowed to Gerard. "Forgive me, Carrière, I should have said I'll get out of _your_ hair, and take this criminal to the station… along with the evidence."

He pulled Choletti's handkerchief out of his mouth; Cholettispat it out and glared at him. "It was the phantom!" he bellowed. "He came in here and paid me alla your money, and then tied me up! He forced-a me to write those papers and you know it, Ledoux! I'll-a have your job for this!"

"Not once I tell M. Poligny what you've been doing," Ledoux said calmly. "Gerard, will you give me a hand here? I think it will be best to take him away while he's still tied up." Working together, they untied him from the chair, but used the ropes to re-bind his feet and hands so that he could just barely walk.

Seeing they meant business, Choletti changed his tune in an instant. "Wait, wait! What are you doing? Ledoux… I am sure we can work something out! Old friend!" Choletti begged. "Please!"

Ledoux stopped short. "Friend?" he snarled. "You dare to call me _friend_? Would a _friend_ have used my wife as a whore?"

"It was-a her idea," Choletti said lamely.

Ledoux growled and pulled him upright. He drew back and smashed his fist into Choletti's face. Just once, but it was enough. Blood began pouring from Choletti's nose, dripping down his face and onto his white shirt. He had to keep his mouth closed to avoid getting it filled with blood as well, and he glared at Ledoux.

"Ah, Henri..?" Gerard interposed. "Shall I go and tell your men to meet you downstairs?"

Ledoux had once again retreated into his urbane Parisian demeanour, fastidiously wiping the blood off his knuckles with his handkerchief. "Yes, if you please, my friend. And if you should happen to see your friend around anywhere, please thank him for me, from the bottom of my heart. Even if it _was_ the phantom; if he stood before me, I would shake his hand this minute!"

"Do you mean that, _monsieur_?" Erik's voice came wafting out of the walls.

Leroux gazed up at the ceiling and all around—no one was there. He raised his voice and spoke to the walls. "I do indeed, _monsieur_, if you were the one who paid off Choletti for me."

Erik came out of the shadows and stood before them, arms crossed. "I would be grateful, Inspector," he said quietly, "if you would refrain from any further investigations of my activities. Is that worth two hundred thousand francs to you?"

Leroux straightened up and faced his former enemy. "_Monsieur_, if you are asking me to let you get away with murder, then much as I appreciate your assistance, I cannot accept your money."

Erik nodded, impressed. "Your principles do you credit, sir, and I would never ask you to act against your conscience. I assure you there have been no murders—and even the accidental deaths could have been avoided if M. Choletti had kept his people out of my domain. Anything below the third cellar is…_unsafe_ for those who do not know their way around. Perhaps M. Carrière will be more careful of the lives and well-being of his employees than M. Choletti has been."

"If M. Choletti has withdrawn his complaint against you, M. le Fantôme, then indeed, I have no charges to press. I thank you for your financial assistance, and for your assurance regarding the 'accidental deaths' here. Will you accept my hand?"

Erik gave him a long, considering look, and then took the two steps forward to grasp Ledoux's hand. They shook like old friends. "Would you, by any chance, like my assistance escorting this prisoner to the exit, so that M. Carrière may go and fetch your men?"

Ledoux considered it. The phantom was still wearing his Red Death outfit; no one would recognize him except for Gerard, who already knew his secret. "Yes, sir, and I thank you."

Choletti gaped. "L-ledoux, he'll kill me!" he quivered.

Erik turned toward him sharply, and Choletti shrank back in fear. Ledoux shoved him, hard, and then stuffed the man's handkerchief back into his mouth. He leaned down and hissed, "I hope youdrown in your own blood!"

Choletti, realizing that his greater danger now came from the inspector rather than the phantom, subsided and went along quietly. Ledoux affected not to notice the phantom quietly helping himself tohis money from Choletti's pockets as they went.

Two of the four policemen that had been there with Ledoux were waiting for him at the main exit, along with Monsieur Poligny, the Director of _l'Academie Nationale_. Choletti groaned; Ledoux grinned, and Erik calmly shoved Choletti into the waiting police carriage.

He bowed to Ledoux. "_Monsieur l'Inspecteur_, I wish you _bon chance_," he said.

"And you, monsieur," Ledoux replied with his own bow. He glanced around. "Should you happen to see my other two men, would you please let them know that the search has ended? Thank you."

"At your service, sir. If you ever need to, you can reach me here; M. Carrière knows how to contact me."

"Thank you, sir. _Au revoir_." Ledoux nodded to him and turned to speak to Poligny.

Grinning to himself, Erik went back into the opera and headed back up toward the ballroom, skipping every other step and humming to himself. He paused on the landing and checked his watch; it had been a little over an hour. Christine and her boy would probably be finished with their chat and on their way back down by now. He was in a wonderful mood. He ran up the rest of the stairs toward the ballroom.

* * *

_A/N: As before, any errors in the spacing of this story aren't my fault; FFN sometimes deletes the spaces between the words as it uploads. It's a FFN error, not an author error._


	21. Arabesques

_A/N: I've already said this in the past several chapters, but I have completely re-written everything from chapters 17 to 20. Go on back to chapter 17 now, and re-read them all before you read this one; otherwise you won't know all the fun things that Gerard and Erik got up to, while Christine was busy breaking up with Philippe. Go on, now; I'll wait right here for you to finish._

* * *

_Ah, welcome back! I take it you've finished reading all the changes? Good. Here's your new (well, old, really) chapter. And before you cuss me out for recycling it, let me say that chapter 22 should be up by tomorrow and it will be all new and have a lot of fluff in it. Enjoy!_

* * *

Erik got to the ballroom just as Philippe and Christine were coming down. Gerard was nowhere in sight. 

"Maestro!" Christine greeted, as she left Philippe and took Erik's hand. She leaned close to him and whispered, "I told him about you, Erik, and he has agreed not to pursue me anymore. May I introduce you?"

Erik hesitated a split second, and then nodded. "Hope you don't expect me to be affable," he muttered.

Christine grinned. "No, just polite."

"I can manage polite. No mention of where I live, though," he warned.

Christine shook her head. "Of course not!" She called Philippe over. "Philippe, I would like you to meet my voice teacher and close friend, Erik. Erik, Philippe is my dearest childhood friend; we grew up together until my father and I left his family's estate."

Gerard came out of the ballroom just in time to see the two men shaking hands warily, with a measuring grip. "Ah, Philippe, I see you've met my son," he said jovially.

Erik blinked in surprise. For information that was classified until just that afternoon, Gerard was being fairly free with it this evening!

Philippe's jaw dropped. "Your son? Gerard, I never knew you had a son!"

"Few people do, and Erik and I would prefer to keep it that way," Gerard explained.

Philippe nodded, understanding instantly: Erik must be illegitimate, acknowledged only in private. "Yes, of course, I understand." He turned to Erik. "Christine says you work here in the opera, _Monsieur_…" Oh, hell, what if the man carried his mother's name?

"Carrière," Erik supplied, with an edge of haughtiness. "Yes, I do. That, too, is something that few people are aware of."

"You may rely on my discretion, sir." Philippe hesitated; this man had a decidedly unfriendly air. What harm would there be to simply making conversation, though? "What is it that you do?"

Erik did not reply, and Gerard broke in. "Erik works for me, actually. He has been my personal assistant for years."

Philippe shook his head in surprise. "I never knew you had an assistant, either, Gerard!"

"I have always been a behind-the-scenes sort of man," Erik remarked coolly.

"That's an understatement," Gerard grinned. "He tends to be fairly private and anti-social, I'm afraid. He dislikes being in the public eye."

"Indeed," Erik agreed. He offered Christine his arm, laying his other hand affectionately over hers,and gave Philippe a shallow bow. "It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, _monsieur_. If you'll excuse us, I must speak with my father for a moment."

"Of course, sir; the honour was mine." Philippe returned the bow and watched the three of them wander away. He was forced to admit that Christine did look happy with this crimson-clad, masked man of mystery. He studied the man as he walked away; he was well-formed and broad-shouldered, taller than his father, and walked with a smoothness and grace that looked familiar, but Philippe couldn't place it.

Erik's voice was deep and quiet, but with a constrained power to it, a metallic edge that Philippe suspected could easily turn cutting. Now that he saw the man and had talked with him, he could easily picture Erik Carrière wiping the streets with Christine's attackers. He was just lucky Erik hadn't wiped the floor with him as well, after he'd found out who had hired the two brutes!

Philippe sighed. Erik was older, too; he had to be in this thirties at least, compared to Philippe's twenty-one years. Philippe had packed a lot of living into his brief adulthood, but He doubted he'd ever be able to command the attention of everyone in the room the way Erik did, just by his very presence. The man had an extremely formidable manner. No wonder Christine felt safe with him; it was obvious that he adored her as much as he intimidated everyone else.

All the same, Christine's defection was a harsh disappointment to Philippe. He really had thought she loved him as much as he loved her; to find out that she didn't was a bitter pill to swallow. He thought about going back into the ballroom and finding one or two members of the _corps de ballet_ to ease his sorrow… but then he thought of what Christine would think if she saw him flirting with other girls, less than an hour after he'd sworn he loved her.

No, better to be alone for a while. Without really knowing where he was going, he headed towards the less populated areas of the opera, climbing stairs and going down unpopulated hallways until he finally reached a narrow staircase with a door at the top. Intrigued, he ascended the stairs (keeping a firm hand on the wall the whole way; the stairs were _quite_ narrow) and pushed open the door.

He was on the roof.

He made his way carefully over towards the edge, peering out over the city. Paris was beautiful when seen at night from up here! The view was obstructed, though, by some of the admittedly lovely statuary on the roof. He wished he could get a clearer view.

Over there! Apollo lifted his golden lyre over his head in a gesture of worship to music; Philippe noticed that the back of the statue slanted a bit. If he were careful, maybe he could climb up onto the statue of Apollo and there enjoy an unobstructed view of Paris. It was a challenging, slippery climb, but finally he sat perched on Apollo's shoulders with nothing above him but sky. It felt curiously freeing, being so high.

He thought about his disappointment with Christine, and he was forced to reflect on the fact that she might have been more willing to entertain his suit if she hadn't already met all of his former bedmates as soon as she arrived in Paris. And maybe if she hadn't met Erik!

Philippe sat there for a long time, enjoying the peace and solitude. He didn't usually get much of either, with his whirlwind of a social life. It reminded him of when he was much younger, and was sneaking around to the country fairs with Christine and Papa Daée; he found that he liked it. He reached into his pocket for his cigar-case, lit up a cigar, and exhaled contentedly.

* * *

_A/N: All right, now I think I've finally caught up with all the changes. Thanks for your patience while I rearranged the timing of certain events to better suit the plot. Please do review; I enjoy the encouragement. And for all you fluff-addicts out there, the next chapter will have more. CL the fluff-monger is back!_


	22. Developpe'

Erik tucked Christine's hand into the crook of his elbow and stroked it tenderly with his other hand. "Forgive us while we catch up on the news, my dear," he murmured. He motioned to Gerard to follow them over to a private corner.

"All right. What happened?" Gerard asked in a low voice.

"I helped Ledoux escort Choletti to the police carriage outside, and Poligny was there. Ledoux was telling him all about Choletti's nefarious habits when I left and came back in. Have you found Ledoux's other two men?"

"No, not yet. So poor Ledoux and Poligny have a lot to talk about, I guess."

"So it would seem."

"Why, what happened?" Christine wondered aloud.

"Choletti has been arrested for blackmail and criminal negligence, and been taken away by the gendarmes," Gerard offered.

"Leaving Gerard once again in charge of the opera—the way it should be," Erik clarified.

"Oh, my!" Christine exclaimed. "This is… astonishing! Does Carlotta know?"

Gerard and Erik looked at each other. "You know, I never gave her a thought," Gerard said. He heaved a big sigh. "I suppose, though, as manager of the opera, she is somehow my responsibility now. I'll go find her and let her know what happened." He smiled at his son. "And that should allow you to spend some time with your lady. You did ask her to a ball, after all; it might be nice if she actually got to do some dancing."

Christine giggled.

"Ask her to dance again," Erik recommended. "That's bound to cheer her up!" He snickered, remembering Carlotta's terror at dancing with what she thought was the phantom, earlier.

Gerard shot him a quick glare and turned heavily away, shoulders slumped at the thought of the unpleasant duty that lay before him.

"Shall we go in and dance, then, my lady?" Erik asked Christine.

She nodded eagerly.

They went back into the ballroom and danced two more dances, but by that point Christine was breathless and begging for a break. Erik, too, had had more than enough of the crowds and was feeling claustrophobic.

"Come with me," he suggested. "I know somewhere we can go, to be alone and away from all these people. Would you like to?"

Thinking he meant his house below the opera, Christine nodded with a relieved smile. She was surprised, therefore, when he began leading her up stairs instead of down. The last staircase was long and narrow, and when he reached the top and pushed the door open so she could see where they were, she gasped.

Paris spread out before them, gaslights shining from windows and moonlight shining down from above. He led Christine over closer to the edge, and showed her the glorious silhouette of the city, outlined black against the dark purple night sky.

"Oh, Erik, this is lovely!" she cried, peering down at all the lights shining.

She edged closer to him, and he obligingly put his arms around her and drew her against his chest. She tipped her head suddenly and brushed the side of his neck with her lips.

He drew in his breath in a startled hiss. His angel grew bold in the dark!

"I hoped you would like it."

"I do! How lucky you are, to be able to live here all the time and to see this whenever you wish!" She turned away again, to better see the city.

Erik smiled a little behind his skull mask. "Christine," he said.

She turned back to him, sliding her arms easily around his waist. She rested her head on his chest, and he wrapped his red velvet cloak around her to keep out the chill. She smiled with pleasure, hearing his beautiful, deep voice rumble in his chest beneath her ear as he went on talking.

"I brought you up here with a very specific question to ask you, my dear."

"Yes, Erik? What is it?" Christine asked, tipping her head up to look at him. She frowned a little. "Erik, no one is around but us; you don't have to worry about anyone seeing your face. Won't you take off your mask for a few minutes?"

Realizing that he still wore the skull mask (and that it would prevent him from claiming a kiss from his beloved if he wanted to) he hesitated a scant instant before nodding and sliding it off over his face. "Better?" he asked, not quite able to eliminate the cynical edge to his voice.

Christine ignored his tone and simply nodded. "Much. Now, what did you want to ask me?"

Grey eyes boring into hers, Erik spoke seriously. "Christine, you must know by now how much I love you. You are the embodiment of everything I have always admired most, and the fact that you have come to care for me as well means more to me than anything else in the world."

She dropped her gaze, but tightened her fingers on his upper arms. "Yes, Erik?"

"I know… for who could know better?… that I have a face like a demon and can never, ever show it in public… and that I have done terrible things to try and protect myself… and that I live in a tomb of a dungeon five cellars down… but Christine, I would dare anything if you were with me! I know I don't deserve you, and that I am presumptuous even to ask… but Christine, I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Please, my dear—will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

Eyes filled with tears, Christine could only nod and repeat, "Yes, Erik."

He blinked a couple of times in stunned amazement. "Y—yes?"

She nodded, smiling up into his eyes. "Yes." He still stared at her in shock, and Christine, a little embarrassed, looked out toward the city and said, "Erik, you have given me _so_ much. You taught me to sing like one of God's own angels, you saved my life and my honour, you gave me your music--and if that wasn't enough, you opened your life to me, you trusted me with your secrets, you forgave my betrayal, and you gave me your heart. Oh, Erik, it's I who don't deserve you! Don't talk to me of presuming, for I'm presumptuous to accept you!"

"Never."

She nodded. "Yes. Yes, I am! I know I don't deserve you after all I've put you through… but Erik, I love you, and I don't want to ever leave you. Not ever!"

And then there seemed nothing to do but to seal the agreement with a kiss.

* * *

Fifteen feet above them on the shoulders of Apollo, Philippe gaped down in astonishment, feeling like he'd just been punched in the gut. Christine had thrown him over for the _Phantom of the Opera?_ Suddenly it all made came together and made sense: Gerard's bastard son, being somehow deformed and having to hide out in the bowels of the theatre, gaining a reputation as the opera ghost.

He grinned darkly, finally understanding what Erik had meant when he'd said he was more of a behind-the-scenes sort of man! That also explained how he'd happened to begin teaching Christine to sing. It did not explain how they had fallen in love—Philippe had heard Erik's remarks about his face, but he couldn't quite see it from up here, as it was dark and Erik was bending down towards Christine—but having met him and come up against the awe-inspiring intimidation of his manner, he could easily see how Christine could have been swept off her feet, deformity or no.

The only thing that didn't make any sense was the dichotomous humility of his manner when he proposed to Christine. "Face like a demon," and "can never show it in public" seemed completely at odds with his cool arrogance from before. He had heard the self-loathing in Erik's voice when he mentioned living in a tomb, and having done terrible things to protect himself, and he nodded. He would have had to protect himself, wouldn't he? Even kill, if he had to, but it was obvious that Erik hated himself for it.

Without meaning to, Philippe began to feel an odd sort of sympathy for the man. What a life he must have had, shut away from everyone, denied the blessing of human companionship—no wonder Christine had stolen his heart so utterly. Her natural warmth and sweetness would endear her to anyone, even a monster. He found it difficult to hate someone whom life had treated so poorly--and who had done so much for Christine.

What had Philippe done? What had he offered the woman he claimed to love?

In a rare moment of self-examination, he objectively compared himself with the man Christine had chose. Philippe had found her at the country fair and sent her to the opera house, but it was Erik who had stepped in and actually given her the voice lessons Philippe had promised. Philippe had taken part in her shining success at the Bistro, but it was Erik who had worked with her faithfully before then, teaching her and preparing her for the Bistro--and even providing her beautiful gown for that evening. Philippe had hired two men to bring Christine to him, but it was Erik who had rescued her when the plan went wrong. Philippe had been suspicious of her behaviour ever since her debut, while Erik had trusted her enough to allow her to have a private dinner with his rival. Philippe had kept a string of mistresses from the opera for the last several years, but it was obvious that Christine was Erik's only love.

Filled with self-recrimination as he recounted all the ways he had failed her, Philippe resolved to do better. Christine was gracious enough not to blame him for any of it, but Erik was another matter entirely. Philippe knew the man would never trust him, but for Christine's sake he resolved right there and then to do better, to prove him wrong. As long as Christine kept Erik's secrets, so would Philippe.

* * *

_A/N: I keep finding myself switching around people's roles in this fic. Not quite sure why, but I did think it would make for a delightful irony to have Philippe be the one up on the roof, eavesdropping on Erik and Christine's declarations of love for a change. Review, SVP!_


	23. Dancing on the Roof

Suddenly, the door to the rooftop burst open. Gerard came barrelling through, still wearing Erik's clothing and black mask.

Erik looked up sharply. "Gerard, what are you doing here? What's going on?"

The next three words explained the entire situation. "They're after me!" he said.

"Who?"

"Ledoux's last two gendarmes. They saw me, thought I was you, and gave chase. I've only got a couple of minutes before they figure out where I've gone. What do we do?"

Erik gave it a scant second's thought. "We'll have to switch back," he said.

He took Christine's hands in both of his and spoke swiftly. "Listen to me," he said. "The gendarmes are coming up after me. Don't tell them the phantom is up here. If they question you, tell them… tell them…" he paused only an instant before he smirked and wenton in a low voice, "Tell them you have a tryst up here with Chagny, and you're just waiting for him." He pressed one last brief, hard kiss to her mouth, and then grabbed Gerard's arm.

"Let's go." He led Gerard around the corner of one of the eaves out of Christine's sight, casually tossed his red cloak to the roof, and started unbuttoning his dark red jacket. Gerard was only an instant behind him, tossing down his cloak and coat, and unbuttoning his trousers.

"Good thing we're nearly of a size," Gerard grunted, bending over to tug the trouser cuffs off over his shoes.

"An amazing coincidence," Erik rejoined dryly, as he pulled off his own trousers and tossed them to his father. Gerard tossed his own at the same moment, so both pairs crossed in the air. "Shirts should be fine as they are," he muttered, tucking his own shirttails into his newly acquired black trousers.

"As you say," Gerard grunted, stooping down to pick up Erik's discarded red jacket and cloak. They were already wearing identical ruffled white shirts. "Still got the packet?"

Erik patted his chest and nodded. He reached forthe black coat and shrugged it on. "Here, don't forget the gun," he said, reaching into the pocket of the coat for it. He handed it to Gerard and picked up hislong, satin-lined black cloak in the next motion.

"There now, are we ready?" Erik asked.

"Uh, not yet," Gerard said, looking uncomfortable. He pulled off his black mask and tossed it over to Erik. "Forgetting something, are we?"

"Damn," Erik muttered, shaking his head as he tied the mask onto his own face. "Must be getting old, to forget my mask."

"Or Christine's a bad influence on you," Gerard teased, tying up his cravat.

Erik eyed him. "Must be getting old," he repeated pointedly.

From where he sat on top of Apollo, Philippe could just barely see the opera manager and his son swiftly changing their clothes. Just as they finished, he noticed Erik reaching into his breast pocket and handing Gerard… a pistol? The newly phantomized Erik pointed for Gerard to go in the opposite direction as himself, toward the door,while he crouched behind the corner of the eave, waiting for the policemen to show up.

The door opened quietly and two of Paris' finestedged out onto the rooftop. One of them, a heavyset, earthy sort, caught sight of Christine, standing silently near the edge overlooking the city. "Hey! _Mademoiselle_!" he shouted.

Christine turned to him innocently. "Are you calling me, sir?"

"Do you see any other _demoiselles_ up here?" he asked rudely. "Where is the phantom?"

Christine had been an actress on the stage for long enough now that she knew how to portray the expected emotional response. She gasped, eyes wide, hand flying to her heart. "Th-the phantom? The ph-phantom is _up here_?"

"Saw him running up the stairs not too minutes ago," the gendarme replied, glancing around. "Nowhere else he could have gone."

His partner, a thinner and more suspicious fellow, narrowed his eyes at Christine. "You must have seen him come up, miss."

"No, sir, I'm sorry," Christine said. She lowered her gaze modestly. "I was…waiting for… a friend of mine… to meet me up here."

"Who?" asked the burly officer.

She stiffened her shoulders. "If you must know, it was the Comte de Chagny," she replied with dignity.

The Comte de Chagny, roosting on his perch on Apollo's shoulders, stifled his derisive snort. Christine sure had some gall, after having just told him she wasn't interested! Then he caught Erik's brief movement out of the corner of his eye and realized she was trying to protect him… and had no idea Philippe was even up there. Philippe settled in to see what would happen.

The officer sniggered. "Lucky man," he remarked.

His slender partner noticed something. "Look here!" He stooped down to pick up Erik's discarded skull mask. "Someone's been up here, that's for certain."

"Yeah, but it wasn't him. He was wearing a black mask," the heavyset policeman pointed out.

Out of the corner of her eye, Christine saw Gerard trying to sneak towards the door. She immediately turned he back on him and starting walking in the opposite direction, to try and distract the gendarmes so he could get away. She didn't know it, but the direction she chose happened to be towards the corner of the eave where Erik waited quietly.

"Here, miss, where are you going?"

"Nowhere—" Christine started to say, before she was interrupted.

With a growl, Erik leaped out from around the corner and grabbed Christine. He slammed her back up against him, with one arm around her waist and the other around her throat. Christine let out a startled squawk of fear—Erik's position was almost identical to the man's who had attacked her all those weeks before!

Philippe, perched up on the shoulders of the sun-god, swore quietly. So _this_ was the kind, self-effacing teacher Christine loved so much? He began to climb down quietly. A motion from the corner of his eye caught his attention: Gerard quietly opened the door to the stairway and went through it, closing it silently behind him. What was he doing? He couldn't be alerting the gendarmes—they were already here!

"Let her go!" the slender policeman yelled.

"Never!" Erik cried in defiance. With his teeth bared in a vicious snarl for the benefit of the gendarmes, he stroked down the side of Christine's neck with the hand that was hidden in her hair. "Stay in character," he encouraged her in a whisper.

The huskier policeman drew his pistol and aimed it at Erik. "_Monsieur_! Let the lady go!"

His partner pushed his gun arm down in disgust. "No, you fool, you'll hit the lady!"

With a firm grip on Christine, Erik began edging toward the door knowing that Gerard was just on the other side of it listening. Hoping that his father would catch on to his plan quickly, Erik shouted, "Let me go, or I'll make her suffer!"

"You brute!" the slender officer cried in horror. "What kind of man are you?"

"Not a man at all," Erik replied with a sneer. "I'm a ghost! Or haven't you been listening to Choletti?" He edged a little closer to the door; it was only a few meters away now. He skirted the edge of the section he was on; the section below was at least three meters down, and he didn't want to slip.

There! Finally, Gerard burst through the door loudly. At one glance he took in what was happening: Erik, holding Christine in a threatening manner and facing off two armed officials.

Gerard took his pistol out of his coat pocket and aimed it at Erik. "Let her go, Phantom!" he called. "Let her go and things can go back to the way they were before!"

Erik shifted his grip on Christine's midsection. "You say so, but I still see two gendarmes after me, and you've got me at gunpoint! You let _my_ theatre be taken over by those two imbeciles! How can I believe you?"

Gerard gestured with his pistol; Erik's eyes followed the motion. "Let her go, I said. Choletti was arrested tonight; Ledoux recalled his men—except for these two, whom we couldn't find—and I'm the manager here again."

"Sir?" Asked the thin officer, disbelieving.

Gerard nodded to them, not taking his eyes off Erik. "It's true, messieurs; you've both been recalled. Choletti confessed to the deaths of your two partners himself." He addressed himself to Erik once more. "Now I'm telling you for the last time, _Monsieur_ Ghost: _Let. Her. Go_!"

With a growl, Erik spun Christine out of his arms. At that same instant, Gerard fired his pistol and Erik staggered back, a dark red stain blooming on his chest.

Christine screamed.

* * *

_Author's note: If anyone is interested in keeping track of my progress, listening to my writing rants, orseeing what these characters look like, I now have a writing blog located at __spaces. msn. com /members /CleverLass/__(remove the spaces or email me for the proper link). Depending on circumstances, I may be replying to some of my reviews there as well._


	24. The End of the Dance

In the next instant, the burly policeman fired as well, and Erik gasped, clapped a hand to his shoulder and glanced up at Gerard in horror—just before he fell off the ledge onto the lower level, three metres down.

Philippe, having made his way stealthily down the back of the statue, leaped down off the base. "Christine!" he called.

She turned swiftly, as Gerard ran down the roof to where Erik had fallen. "Oh, Philippe! They shot him!"

"Hush!" he hissed. "Do you want them to arrest you too, for collusion with him?"

"They can't!" she insisted. "He's been exonerated! Ledoux arrested Choletti for those murders and recalled his policemen!"

"You mean Gerard was telling the truth?" Philippe grabbed her shoulders urgently.

"Yes! Erik is in the clear!" She stifled a sob. "I have to go to him. Philippe, can you help us? Please?" She took his hand.

Philippe hesitated only a bare instant, and then nodded. Christine ran with him down the roof to where Erik lay.

Gerard was sitting on the roof next to Erik, who was very pale under his black mask. He was pressing hard on Erik's shoulder wound and trying to keep the slender cop from removing Erik's mask. "No!" he said. "Get back! Leave him some room!"

"Get back!" Christine cried, running over to them and falling to her knees beside Erik.

"What did you do, sir?" Philippe confronted the policeman who had shot Erik. "This man's been cleared! You have killed an innocent man!"

"But monsieur! He was threatening the lady!"

Christine shook her head. "I was in no danger, sir, except from you!"

"What—?" the other officer asked.

Philippe didn't want to give them time to realize exactly what had happened, that Gerard had shot the phantom first. He decided to trade on his title and try to bluff their way out. He rounded on the officer. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded angrily. "I'm the Comte de Chagny, one of the opera's biggest patrons. I'm telling you now, your best course of action is to get back down those stairs, order my carriage brought round, and then hie yourselves back to the station and tell Ledoux what you've done this night! Because you can rest assured that I shall be talking to him tomorrow!"

The two gendarmes looked at each other. Neither one of them earned as much in a year as Philippe spent on a new suit—they both knew that to cross the comte, even in a case like this, would probably cost them both their jobs, if not more.

The heavier one tried one last time. "Now, look here, monsieur—"

"Did you hear what I said?" Philippe asked quietly.

The officer subsided. "Yes, sir." They both got up and left, stopping to take one last puzzled look at the tableau at the edge of the roof, before disappearing though the door.

"Don't forget to call my carriage!" Philippe shouted. He glanced down at Gerard. "We'll take him to my city flat," he explained dispassionately. "My family doctor is very good. If your son's life can be saved, he'll save it."

Gerard glanced up. "Thank you, Philippe," he said humbly, before gathering his semi-conscious son into his arms. "It's only a shoulder wound; I think he'll be all right."

"What on earth made you shoot him? Your own son!" Christine demanded as her hand went down to stroke Erik's hair gently.

Erik's eyelids fluttered open. "He--he didn't,"he said. "But Christine, I… I'm… sorry… about that." He indicated with his eyes the place where he had grabbed her, over near the door. "Are you... all right?"

She nodded to him and glanced questioningly at Gerard.

"I didn't shoot him," Gerard replied wearily. He reached down with his free hand and opened up Erik's red-stained shirt. He took out a small bag, dripping with a sticky, red substance. "We talked about it earlier and decided the phantom had to die. We planned it all out this afternoon. My pistol was loaded with blanks. Erik had a packet of stage blood." His mouth twisted wryly. "Neither of us anticipated the second shooting."

"Oh!" Christine exclaimed. "So there's only one gunshot wound then?" She smiled in relief at Gerard's nod of confirmation.

"Yes, but—one is bad enough," he said grimly. "Especially since the bullet is still lodged in there. I hope he hasn't lost too much blood, though it's hard to tell the real from the fake." He looked up at Philippe. "Come on, help me get him downstairs.

Between the two of them, with Christine fluttering anxiously around behind them, they managed to get the wounded man back down the stairs and out the door of the Rotunda. The Chagny coach was there waiting for them. Philippe dispatched a quick message to his family doctor, while his footmen jumped down to help Erik get into the closed coach and lie down across the seat. Then Philippe, Christine, and Gerard squeezed together on the opposite bench and Philippe called to his coachman. "Take us back to the flat," he called. As the coach lurched into motion, he added, "But gently!"


	25. Hospitality

Author's note: My good pal Ripper de la Blackstaff has been good enough to illustrate this story for me. Her drawings can be seen at my blog-site, listed on my profile page. Go check them out; she's very good!

* * *

They got Erik safely to Philippe's flat and helped him inside. Surrounded by fluttering servants, Philippe assigned one to wait for the doctor, another to prepare guest rooms for all three of them, and still another to heat water and making tea. 

They eased Erik down on the bed in one of the guest rooms, and Gerard reached for the buttons of Erik's shirt. "Might want to avert your eyes, mademoiselle," he told Christine. He had no idea what she and Erik had done together over this last week while she was staying with him, but Christine still had such an innocent demeanour that he was willing to bet she'd never seen Erik even so much as shirtless.

Philippe turned to her. "Why don't I show you to your room?" he asked tactfully. "The doctor should be here any minute, and he won't want anyone else in here while he's examining M. Carriere."

With one last long look at Erik, Christine nodded. "Yes, thank you, Philippe."

Her room was large and comfortable, and best of all, it was just across the hall from Erik's. She would be able to hear when the doctor came and left, and find out how Erik was doing.

The doctor arrived shortly, and the butler showed him right up. Philippe had gone back into Erik's room, and the doctor unceremoniously ordered him to leave—and Gerard too.

"No," Erik said weakly, grasping Gerard's forearm. "My father stays."

"But sir, the bullet must be dug from your shoulder! It will not be a pretty sight."

"Nevertheless," Erik said. "He stays."

"I'll stay," Gerard confirmed with a nod to the doctor. He could guess Erik's fear: that the doctor would drug him and then unmask his face while he slept.

"Very well," the doctor replied tightly. "If you're staying, you can make yourself useful."

"I'm at your service."

"I'll need you to hold him down while I remove the bullet."

Christine waited just inside her door, ear pressed to it, to try and hear what was going on. She heard the low rumble of men's conversation, and then she heard the door open and close. She opened hers a crack and saw Philippe stalking down the corridor. She called his name, and he turned.

"Do you need any help, Christine? I can send up a maid to help you undress."

She shook her head. "No, thank you; I'm used to doing it myself. But Philippe, what about Erik? What did the doctor say?"

Now it was his turn to shake his head. "I don't know. He chucked me out of the room, and Gerard, too, only Erik wouldn't let Gerard leave. I think perhaps…"

He was interrupted by a long groan of pain issuing from inside Erik's room. Christine gasped. "Oh! Will he be all right?"

"Let's hope so; M. Leblanc is the best doctor I know. Here, as long as you're awake, why don't you come down to the drawing room with me, and have a glass of wine."

"Oh, no, I couldn't! Thank you, but I must find out how Erik is."

Philippe shrugged. He wasn't keen on hanging about in the hallway with the woman he loved while she fretted and worried about another man. "Very well, but if you change your mind, do come down." He patted her on the shoulder and left.

Christine bit her lip and stayed, waiting for the doctor to leave the room.

It seemed to take forever, but he finally came out. He gave Christine a curt nod and started to walk past, but she touched his arm. "Doctor, how is he? Shall he be all right?"

Leblanc spread out his hands. "I can't say, mademoiselle. The bullet has been removed, but the risk of infection is high. And with the fall he took right afterwards—well, he shan't be doing anything strenuous for a few weeks, such as, oh, say, _walking_."

Christine's stricken expression told the doctor what he wanted to know, but he asked anyway. "You care about his health, do you, young lady?"

"Yes—we are to be married. He just made his proposal this evening."

"I wish you joy, then, and ask for your help. I know from experience how hard it can be to keep some men in their beds for long enough to heal properly. If you want a whole and healthy husband when you marry him, mademoiselle, then I ask you to exert yourself to keep him in bed for at least a week. Longer would be better, but unless I miss my guess, a week will be all you can manage. Will you do that?"

"Yes, sir, and thank you."

"Very well, then." The doctor hesitated a brief moment, and then blurted out his question. "Why does he wear a mask?"

"He has a…" Almost too late, Christine realised that it was not her secret to tell. "He has an unusual-looking face; he does not like to reveal it to people," she finally said.

The doctor nodded. "That much I knew already." He turned to leave.

"Doctor, can…"

The doctor paused and half-turned back.

"May I see him?"

"I've given him some laudanum, to help him sleep for a while. You can go in, but don't expect him to say much." He turned and was gone down the corridor.

Christine crossed the hall and rapped lightly on the door before opening it slowly.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Daee, come in," Gerard greeted her with a smile. He bowed and offered her the only chair in the room, a low wooden one positioned right beside Erik's bed.

Erik lay quite still, almost as white as the bedsheets. They were pulled up to his chin, but Christine could see the lump that the bandage underneath made in the sheets.

She sank into the chair. "How is he?" Christine whispered.

"Better than he should be, considering how far he fell, and with a shoulder wound. The doctor says the hard part will be keeping him in bed as long as he needs to be."

"What shall we do, then?" Christine asked. "He won't want to stay here and accept Philippe's hospitality."

"He may have to," Gerard said with a sigh. "For a few days at least." He stretched and yawned. "Damn the boy and his stubborn pride. His paranoia is costing me my sleep!"

Christine smiled at his beleaguered tone of voice. "Why, what do you mean?"

"He won't let me leave him alone in here, for fear someone will come in and unmask him while he's drugged."

Christine laughed, a soft, musical sound. "Then you may go to bed and sleep soundly, monsieur. I'll stay up with him. I wouldn't be getting any sleep anyway, and this way I can make sure he's all right."

"Are you sure, mam'selle? You have a reputation to consider."

She grinned. "I doubt I'm in any danger of ravishment from an unconscious man," she countered. "I would like to stay with him. And besides, we are fiancés now. Go on to bed, monsieur."

"You're engaged? Really? My sincere congratulations, mam'selle!" Gerard came over and bent to kiss her enthusiastically on both cheeks. "Oh, and you must call me Gerard now, since we shall be family!"

"And likewise, I shall be Christine," she replied. "Now, go to bed, Gerard!"

"Good night, my dear." He beamed at her and left the room.

Alone in the room with her unconscious fiancé, Christine indulged her curiosity and pulled the sheet down a little, to see the bandaged shoulder. She couldn't see the wound, though, and she was about to pull the sheet back up when she realised what she was looking at: Erik's bare chest.

He was a tall man, powerfully built, with broad shoulders and chest. She drew in a long breath as she gazed at him. She could see the outline of his muscles beneath the skin, a few fine, light brown hairs scattered across his chest.

He was beautiful.

She knew she shouldn't be peeking at him, but on the other hand he was completely unconscious and would never know. And plus, she didn't think he would mind, since she would be his wife soon. They would have to start planning some things, such as setting a wedding date and figuring out where they would live. She smiled to herself, thinking that maybe they could occupy themselves by discussing those things while Erik was bedridden—it might help keep him in bed longer!

She rested her hand lightly on his good shoulder, stroking down in a brief caress. His skin was warm and smooth, the fine hairs tickling her palm. She was tempted to bend down and touch her lips to the skin of his chest, and stopped herself just in time. The room was warm, but suddenly she shivered. One arm lay beside the pillow next to his head, and she slid her hand up his arm to take his hand in hers. She leaned back in the chair, still holding his hand.

"I love you, Erik," she whispered. "Get well soon, my dearest."

Was it her imagination, or did his fingers tighten on hers a fraction, before she slipped off into sleep?

Erik woke her later, as he tried to roll over and accidentally rolled onto his wounded shoulder. He groaned in pain, and Christine jumped to her feet. "Erik, please! You must lie still!"

He rolled back to face her, blinking in the dim gaslight. "I just reached the same conclusion myself." He tried to sit up, but lay back down again with a grunt of pain. "What happened? Where are we?"

"In Philippe's city flat, in the Boulevard des Courcelles. You were shot by one of the police officers, and then you fell off a ledge. Philippe, Gerard, and I managed to get you out of the opera by pretending you were dying."

"I feel as if I am," Erik remarked. He looked up at her with a tiny smile, though, and reached for her hand again. "I'm glad you're here, though. My heaven wouldn't be complete without you."

Christine returned his smile, and on a sudden whim, leaned down to kiss his lips. His response was sincere, if a little lethargic, but soon faded. Christine sat up again, amused as she watched his bare chest rise and fall with his even breathing.

Erik had fallen asleep again, right in the middle of their kiss!


	26. Problems in Convalescence

_Author's note: I know it has been ages, but finally here is your new update. It forced me to have to make some changes in the last two chapters; specifically: after Erik was wounded on the rooftop, I originally had themtaking him all the way into the country, to Chateau de Chagny. He would have been far too injured to travel that far, though, so insteadthey ended up taking him to Philippe's flat in Paris. It is no castle, but it is a generously-sized flat located about 15 minutes' walk from the Opera, in the Boulevarde des Courcelles. _

_(Itseemed like a verygood location for a weak and wounded Erik to convalesce.)_

_Read and review, please; I swear, it's the reviews that forced me back into this story after I had been blocked for 2 months. I also have a fairly full plate in real life, too, which has drastically reduced the amount of time I have available for fanfic writing. I will, however, make every effort to finish this one up soon. Cheers!_

* * *

Erik awoke just as the first rays of dawn were lighting the sky. There was a pressure on his chest; it was hard to breathe, and he gingerly lifted his head to see what the obstruction was.

Christine had fallen asleep in her low chair, leaning forward so her head rested on his good right shoulder. He smiled faintly. "Christine," he whispered. He stroked her hair. "Christine."

She stirred a little, and Erik carefully rolled toward her. "Christine, love, lift your head up a little."

She did so, and he manoeuvred her so that her head was resting on his shoulder rather than his chest. This put her at an awkward angle in the chair, though, and she whined a sleepy little complaint that made him smile in spite of his pain.

"Come and lie down, my dear. It's still early."

In her sleepy state, Christine thought this a fine idea; she slid off the chair and eased down next to Erik on top of the sheet. She curled up next to him like a kitten, with her back pressed against chest and her head on his arm. Erik reached over and brushed the hair from her neck, before brushing it lightly with his lips. "Sleep well, love."

The room was bright when she awoke again to a light tapping on the door. It inched open and Gerard stuck his head in. "How is he?" he asked in a whisper, politely ignoring the fact that the two were lying down together.

Blushing furiously, Christine tried to rise. Erik's arm around her waist held her firmly in place, though, and tightened when she tried to move. She finally gave up and put her head back down. "Forgive me, Gerard," she murmured, still embarrassed. "I know this must look scandalous."

"No need, no need," Gerard replied with a disarming grin. "I don't blame him a bit. When I find something worth keeping, I like to hold onto it, too!"

Christine smiled weakly at the compliment.

"So how is he doing?"

"He seems to have regained some of his strength," she replied sarcastically. She could swear she felt Erik's shoulder twitch a little, as if he had stifled a chuckle.

"So I see." Gerard's reply was amused. "How did he sleep?"

"Like the dead," came Erik's sleepy voice. "Now go away so he can keep doing it, why don't you?"

"Erik!" Christine scolded, half laughing.

"I would, Erik, but I thought Miss Daee might like to freshen up and have some breakfast. She had almost as rough a night as you did."

"I _am_ rather hungry," Christine admitted.

With a groan, Erik released her so she could sit up, and he painfully and carefully rolled back over onto his back. "I wouldn't say no to some breakfast myself, though I don't suppose you two would be willing to let me get up and go down to get it."

"No, love," Christine said, just at the same time Gerard spoke sternly.

"Absolutely not! The doctor said you're to stay in that bed for at least a week, to give your ribs a chance to mend. I'll have someone bring you up a tray."

"A week!" Erik exclaimed. "Not a chance."

"Well, that's up to you," Gerard pretended to give in. "Do you want to live long enough to marry this lovely young lady, or not? The choice is yours."

Christine turned her soulful blue eyes on her fiance. "Erik, I know you hate it here, and I know you don't like Philippe. But if you want to be well sooner, you must follow the doctor's orders. Please, my dearest – for my sake, will you please do as he says for at least a week?"

Unable to rebut, Erik sighed unhappily and nodded.

It was the longest week of Erik's life. It was bad enough to be bedridden, but to be stuck accepting the hospitality of his former rival was a deep blow to Erik's pride. He became surly when Gerard and Christine denied him his clothes, and downright irascible when Philippe stopped in to see how he was doing.

"Oh, I'm fine," he said sarcastically in response to the boy's query. "I just love lying here flat on my back for days on end, staring at the ceiling." He widened his eyes in an expression of mock-excitement. "And then sometimes, just for variety, I can roll over onto my side and stare at…" he blinked. "You," he finished lamely. "Or whoever is in here at the time. I've had prettier visitors, though."

"No doubt," grinned Philippe. Unable to resist baiting the man a little, he said, "But don't worry; I'm doing my best to make sure Christine doesn't get bored."

Erik gritted his teeth.

Philippe grinned. "Oh, come now, monsieur," he teased. "Surely you know by now how firmly you hold Christine's heart! Do you really think that spending a few days having meals with me is enough to wrench it away from you?"

"Why not?" Erik asked bitterly. "There is quite a difference between your appearance and mine." He knew by now that Philippe had seen his face, there on the rooftop of the opera.

Philippe nodded. "There is, it's true," he conceded. "You're much taller and broader than I am. It's no wonder Christine prefers you."

Erik darted him a sharp glance, his grey eyes glittering hard in the sunlight. Seeing nothing but resigned honesty in Philippe's face, he relaxed a tiny amount, and closed his eyes for a moment with a sigh.

Philippe came in and eased himself into the chair beside Erik's bed. He said nothing for a long moment, and then asked quietly, "Where will you live?"

Erik opened his eyes again and stared suspiciously at him. "What?"

"When you and Christine are married," Philippe clarified. "Where will you both live?"

Erik frowned and looked away.

"You cannot return to the opera cellars," Philippe stated. "The damp would not be good for Christine's voice. Not to mention that Gerard and I have gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure that everyone knew the phantom had been killed. If you took up haunting it again like you used to, everyone would know us to be liars."

"I see," Erik said sombrely. He had, in fact, been giving the matter much thought because Philippe was absolutely right. Christine should not be living in the cellars.

"The problem is, M. de Chagny, that with my mask and my face, my alternatives are limited."

There was a knock at the door, and Gerard stuck his head in. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said. "May I come in?"

"Of course," Erik told him. "I didn't expect to see you today."

"Well," Gerard said, coming in and leaning on the bedpost. "Things at the opera are finally beginning to calm down just a bit, after Choletti's arrest. So how have you been doing?"

"Do you really want me to answer that, Gerard?" Erik asked dryly. "I'm bedridden in the house of my rival—"

"Your unsuccessful rival," Philippe pointed out.

"—Who has just thoughtfully pointed out that when I am better and Christine and I can marry, we will have no place to live." He turned his rueful grey gaze to Philippe. "Thanks for that, by the way," he said sarcastically.

"Any time," Philippe replied with a grin. "I did not, however, bring up the subject simply to torment you. I was wondering whether you had an alternative plan, or whether you might possibly be interested in buying this flat from me."

"Oh!" For once, Erik was speechless.

Gerard, as was his wont, easily filled in the gap. "Oh, wouldn't that be convenient, Erik," he said. "It's a nice flat, and a good location – only fifteen minutes' walk to the opera!"

"Mmm," Erik said thoughtfully. "Just one thing. How on earth am I to manage living aboveground? What am I to tell people who ask why I wear a mask?"

"Technically, that is two things," Gerard remarked. "However I am somehow sure that we'll be able to come up with some kind of plausible explanation for your, ah, facial adornment."

"The doctor says you'll be convalescing for at least a month anyway," Philippe told him casually. "So you'll have plenty of time to decide, both about the flat and about the mask."

"A month!" Erik exclaimed in shock. "I can't stay here for a month!"

"I am afraid you'll have to," Philippe answered. "Unless you want your wound to get infected, and for Christine to break your ribs again the next time she embraces you."

"I shall take care not to let that happen, monsieur, but I simply cannot stay any longer than absolutely necessary. As soon as I can walk again, I shall be moving back to my own house below the opera."

"And how shall you take care of yourself?" Gerard asked.

"How shall the doctor see you, to care for your injuries?" Philippe added.

"Who shall see to your daily needs: your cooking, your toilet, your hygiene? With your shoulder and ribs so injured, you cannot hope to do it all for yourself, especially down there," Gerard said.

"If you stay here, the doctor will be able to treat your wound, and the servants will quite happily take care of the rest," Philippe urged. "Unless they have been remiss in your service until now?"

"No, no, the servants have all been fine," Erik muttered irritably. He sighed, a deep sigh with a bit of a groan in it.

Gerard chuckled at the expression of dismayed frustration in Erik's eyes as his head fell back against the pillow helplessly. "Come now, son," he patted Erik's foot paternally. "You want to be healthy for your bride, don't you?"

Erik expression softened a bit when Gerard addressed him as "son." It wasn't something that his father had ever called him before actually confessing to his paternity, and hearing it so often now was a balm to Erik's formerly orphaned soul. He sighed. "You're right, of course," he admitted. He swallowed his pride and went on, "You're _both_ right."

Philippe, knowing how much of a compliment it was for Erik to admit that Philippe was right about _anything_ beamed. "I hope my hospitality is not lacking, monsieur, and that you know that you are more than welcome to stay as long as you wish even if you decide not to buy the flat."

"Thank you," Erik told him, and for the first time, he really meant it. He smirked a little. "But I can't help but think you are fishing for compliments on your household, monsieur, because surely you know how well your staff shows your hospitality!"

"Well, your unwillingness to accept it _had_ made me wonder a little," Philippe admitted.

Erik looked down, a little embarrassed at his churlishness. "Forgive me, Monsieur de Chagny. I have had little practice interacting with others until recently—except for my father, of course."

"Of course," Philippe responded graciously.

There was a knock on the door, and a maid stuck her head in to announce that Miss Daee was there to visit M. Carriere, and would he receive her?

"Receive her? Of course I'll receive her!" Erik exclaimed, once he realised that _he_ was the M. Carriere in question. "Please send her up."

Philippe noticed the maid's brief perusal of Erik's masked face. She did not seem put off; rather, she seemed intrigued by his mask, and Philippe remembered with amusement Gerard's referring to it as Erik's "facial adornment," as if it were just another accessory like gloves or a hat.

Suddenly he was struck by an idea. He smiled to himself as he rose from the chair beside Erik's bed. "Monsieur Carriere, if you'll be so good as to excuse us, I have an idea to discuss with Gerard that I think may help you with your other problem that you mentioned."

"Other problem?" Erik said sharply.

Philippe gestured toward his own face and glanced toward the door, through which they could hear Christine's rapidly approaching footsteps. Erik nodded, understanding: it was the problem of his mask, and what others would say about it were he to join society.

Philippe grasped Gerard's elbow and tugged him eagerly toward the door with a puppyish grin. He could hardly wait to hear what the older man would say about his idea! The two men exited the room just as Christine came in; Erik could hear their brief greetings in the hallway before she pushed the door open and came tripping in.

Erik felt his heartbeat speed up as she smiled at him and came over to give him a kiss. She was so beautiful that it sometimes made him ache to look at her. And to think that she would one day be his, still boggled his mind. His, when she could have had Philippe de Chagny who, Erik was forced to admit, was turning out to be less of a lying lecher and more of a respectable gentleman than he had originally thought. He shook his head at his good fortune and pressed his lips to Christine's hand as she sat down to give him all the opera gossip of the day.


	27. Plots and Plans and Strategems

_Yes, folks, just as you thought this story had been abandoned altogether, this little chappie came to me. I was "inspired," shall we say, by the chance to tour l'Opera Garnier in Paris two weeks ago, with my good pal and phellow phan, Ripper._

_So this chapter is dedicated to Ripper, in thanks for being such a gracious hostess and generally being such an all-around fun person when you meet her IN person. Cheers, luv!_

* * *

Downstairs in the study, Philippe poured himself and Gerard some drinks and sat down in the green leather armchair with a pleased look. 

"All right, Philippe," Gerard challenged. "What is this idea that has you so excited?"

Philippe grinned, a mischievous grin that Gerard recognised from every time Philippe had made a new conquest in the chorus. "Well, I don't know whether you've ever noticed, but I have rather a lot of money," he said.

"It hadn't escaped my notice," Gerard said. "What of it?"

"I also have a respectable title," Philippe added.

"I repeat: what of it?"

"Well, one thing I've noticed over the past few years since I inherited both the money and the title, Gerard, is that not only can the titled nobility get away with things that others can't – because their quirks are simply labelled eccentricities – but others eventually begin to copy them. Why, already I have noticed several of the other opera patrons getting their suits cut the same way as mine, and Anatole and Georges have even started wearing their hair the same way I do."

"What are you getting at?" Gerard demanded, frowning.

"Simply this: suppose, in the wake of the phantom's supposed death and all the news coverage in the papers, I and a few of my friends began wearing masks? In the wake of the Phantom's demise, it would be considered daring, titillating, and even a little naughty—which practically guarantees that no one would be surprised by the men of _my_ set enthusiastically starting the trend. It would become fashionable within a week to wear a mask in public, and by the time he is ready to join society, your son would scarcely be noticeable in a crowd."

Gerard's jaw dropped as he envisioned Philippe's new fashion.

Philippe went on, "He would be able to move about freely, to conduct business as he sees fit – if you were interested, you could even hire him openly, and he could be seen about the opera."

With awistful look in his eyes, Gerard said quietly, "I could tell everyone that he is my son." He took a sip of his wine, and swallowed, his eyes distant.

Philippe let him have his moment of reverie, and merely nodded.

Within a minute, Gerard's gaze sharpened. "What about when the fashion becomes passé?" he demanded. "A trend such as that could not possibly last for very long – what would Erik do once it had passed, and he was once again the only man on the streets wearing a mask? How could I employ him then, or even openly claim him as my son?"

Philippe frowned. "As for the trend, it would serve well enough for him to become accustomed to the demands of society above ground. He has grown up in a theatre; he could easily have a mask made that would look like a scarred, ugly, human face. Once people saw that, they would think it his normal face, and no one would be surprised by his covering it withhis _usual_ mask. They would have no reason to ever see his real one, and he could go about openly masked.

"But, Gerard," he fixed the older man with a stern look. "Erik's mask should have no bearing on whether or not you employ him, and especially not on whether you can openly claim him. If you cannot freely claim Erik as your son, masked or not, then you don't deserve to have him as such. Erik's acceptance into society may be made or broken by how easily he is accepted by _you._ If _you_ can accept him, employ him, and claim him with confidence as your son, then that confidence will influence how well others accept him as well. Much of Erik's success depends on you."

Gerard grew pale and looked away. He carefully set down his glass and walked across the room to the window, where he gazed out, scowling at the street below. Philippe, fearing that he had said too much, started to get up and go to him; then, having his courage desert him, he settled uncomfortably into his chair again. He sipped his wine nervously, and wiped his palms on his trousers.

Moments passed, and Philippe kept an eye on Gerard's hands. When he saw them open up from their from white-knuckled fists, he relaxed a little. After what seemed like a long time, Gerard turned back to him, shamefaced.

"Thank you, Philippe," he said, sounding tired as he accepted the rebuke. "You are absolutely right, and that cannot have been easy for you to say."

"You have no idea!" Philippe replied with a long, relieved, and gusty sigh. "I was afraid you were about to call me out or something, and I'm afraid that I am very much a lover, rather than a fighter."

Gerard smiled, grateful for Philippe's attempt to lighten the tension in the room. He came and sat back down, taking another drink of his wine. Another long, considering moment went by, and then he nodded. "You're right about the masks, too. I think it may work, if only we can do such a bizarre thing with confidence, as you said."

Philippe chuckled. "Don't worry about that on my end, Gerard. I'm fairly well known in my circle for doing bizarre things with confidence!"

* * *

Please review! It's a little blue button, bottom left. Can't miss it. Only take a minute.


	28. Fashion is a Façade

Chapter 28: Fashion is a Façade

A few weeks later, everything was settled. Erik had grudgingly agreed to buy Philippe's flat, but he didn't tell Christine yet. He wanted it to be a surprise for her, for their wedding. His recovery seemed slow, but a few weeks after his near-fatal shooting and fall he was ready to go out again and visit his father at the opera.

Christine came over that day, and was overjoyed to accompany him for the 20-minute walk to the opera house.

The first masked man they passed saw them and merely nodded to Erik as if he knew him. Erik's mouth dropped open and he craned his neck to keep the man in his sights even after they had passed each other. "Christine!" he said in a strangled whisper. "Did you see that?"

She nodded. "I guess there is a sort of _fraternité_ between one masked man and another?" she offered mischievously. She had noticed the odd fashion that had taken hold among the young men of Paris. She had wondered about it, but hadn't connected it with Erik -- and so, had forgotten to mention it to him.

Erik frowned, but did not respond – at least, not until they passed a second masked man who nodded to Erik amiably as he passed. "What is going on?" he demanded through tight lips.

Christine shrugged. "I don't know, really. There have been quite a few young men who have taken to wearing masks lately, but I have no idea why."

The third masked young man could have been a Philippe-clone: he wore his suit cut the same as Philippe's, and had his shoulder-length hair curled in exactly the same way. This fellow actually lifted his hat to Erik, and smiled at him, before continuing on his way.

Erik growled. "It's him. Chagny."

"Erik, that wasn't Philippe!"

"Doesn't matter. Looks enough like him to tell me that Chagny is behind this somehow. Might have known his friendly smiles were all a façade; he's been mocking me behind my back all the while I've been laid up!" Erik quickened his stride, so that Christine had to jog to keep up.

"Erik, I'm sure you've misunderstood!" she panted, trying to catch him up.

He finally realised her difficulty, and slowed down. "Have I?" he asked grimly. "Surely it's no coincidence that I've been locked in Chagny's house for the last month and a half, while outside in Paris, people are wearing masks and mocking me! People who strongly resemble that half-witted Chagny, even."

"Yes, but why must you assume that it's malicious? Let's wait until we see him, and ask him about it? Please, Erik. Philippe must know that hurting you in any way would also hurt me, and he promised he would never do anything to hurt me again. He's my friend, Erik; let's give him the benefit of the doubt."

Erik sighed, still annoyed, but nodded. "As you say, love. We'll see what the little twit has to say for himself."

When they reached the opera, they went right up to the manager's office and knocked. A young man opened the door and looked enquiringly at them…

…through his mask.

Erik gritted his teeth, and Christine hurriedly said, "We are here to see Monsieur Carriere – is he here?"

"He is," the secretary said. In a low, snide tone, he added, "He's trying to recapture his lost youth, but he's here." He nodded to Erik with what they were starting to recognise as the same sort of masked-man-solidarity they had noticed on the street, and continued in a sarcastic tone, "It's rather sad when someone as old as he is starts trying to wear the fashions of the young." He indicated the mask on his face. "Whom shall I tell him is here?"

"Christine Daée and Erik—"

"Come in!" Gerard's voice issued from within. They pushed the door open. "Ah, finally!" he said with satisfaction. "I've been waiting for you!"

He was wearing a mask as well.

"As I said," muttered the young secretary to Erik, in a brotherly manner. "Lost youth."

"Meet my personal assistant, M. Debienne," Gerard said in an ironic tone of voice. He didn't bother to introduce Erik or Christine to the young man, who returned to his desk in a huff.

Utterly bewildered, Erik followed Christine into the office. As soon as the door closed, he exploded. "Gerard, what the _hell_ is going on around here? Why are you in a mask? For that matter, why is half of Paris in a mask, and bowing to me as if we're all the best of friends?"

Gerard grinned, sat down, and pulled the mask off. "Sit down, Erik, and for God's sake, _calm_ down as well. I'll tell you everything, I promise, but you have to promise to hear me out quietly. All right?"

"All right," Erik said, someway sulkily, as he and Christine sat down.

"Here is what happened. Philippe de Chagny and I worked together to start a new fashion among the young men of Paris. In the aftermath of the phantom's death on the rooftop, some of the more daring among them began to wear masks, as a sort of homage to the phantom. He did, after all, keep things interesting around here for twenty or thirty years."

"Homage?" Erik asked sharply. "Not to mock me?"

"No, definitely as homage," Gerard clarified. His eyes twinkled as he saw Erik's shoulders relax slightly.

"But why? To what purpose?" Erik wanted to know.

"Well, let me put it to you this way," Gerard began. "Did anyone stare at you just now, as you were walking over? Ask about your mask? Demand to see your face?"

Mystified, Erik shook his head.

"That's why. Philippe and I found a way for you to be able to walk about the city, to live aboveground, and above all, to keep company with a lovely young lady, without attracting anyone's notice."

Erik's jaw dropped for the second time in ten minutes.

"Gerard, that's brilliant!" Christine exclaimed. "Just think, Erik – instead of people thinking that you're the phantom of the opera – because everyone knows he's dead now – they'll just think you're a stylish young man. Maybe even a friend of Philippe's!"

In a strangled voice that told her he was trying not to laugh, Erik muttered, "I think I'd rather they think me the phantom than think me a friend of Chagny's!"

Christine glared at him, and he finally allowed his snort of laughter to escape. "All right, all right, I'll admit it: it's a clever plan. But what happens when masks go out of fashion? What do I do then? Everyone will either know me for the phantom at the point, or they'll just think me a sad sort of hanger-on instead of being the trendsetter, as it were."

Gerard smiled and reached into his desk drawer. He took out an odd-looking floppy rubber thing and handed it to Erik. "That's when you put this on under your mask, son. A few 'accidental' viewings should be all you need."

Erik held it up. It was a rubber mask, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was supposed to look like. He eyed Gerard for a moment, then slipped his mask off and put on the rubber one. Wordlessly, Gerard handed him a mirror.

"Oh, my!" Christine exclaimed. The rubber mask looked completely natural on Erik's face, and made him look completely normal, only very unpleasantly scarred – as if he had lost a knife fight… or a battle… or something. "Well, that's… uh…"

Erik glanced in the mirror at himself. "It's not as bad as my natural face? Is that what you're trying to say?" he teased.

"Well, yes," Christine blushed. "But at the same time, anyone who sees that will perfectly understand why you would prefer not to show it. Gerard, this is a wonderful solution!"

"So _you_ say," Erik said, replacing his regular mask over the rubber one. "But I notice you're not the one who has to wear two masks at once, in the hot summer months!" He smiled at her.

"Would you rather have to show your real face to the masses?" Gerard demanded with some asperity. "Philippe and I went to a great deal of time and trouble to arrange all this for you, so that you would be able to marry Christine and live aboveground like a normal man. The least you could do is thank us!"

Abashed, Erik nodded. "I was teasing, Gerard. I _am_ grateful, even though my shock is still overwhelming most of my gratitude at the moment." He grinned at his father. "You must admit, this all does come as quite a surprise! Why didn't you tell me?"

Gerard leaned back in his chair. "Because we wanted to see if it would work first. To see if the trend would take off on its own. Now that it has, even after it goes out of style again, you should be safe to marry, live aboveground, even take a job if you wish it."

"A job? What sort of job could I do?" Erik mused.

Gerard flashed him a grin that advertised mischief. "Well, I haven't been terribly happy with my new 'personal assistant' out there. He's a pompous fool, thoroughly convinced that he's indispensable. I've been meaning to dispense with him for a few weeks now; how would you like your old job back?"

Erik laughed out loud. "Are you serious?"

Gerard nodded. "And of course, there's the sad fact that I am getting older – and I would hate to leave the opera in the hands of someone else like Choletti. How would you like to be trained as my replacement?"

Erik chuckled again. "Trained? I've been doing your job for the last fifteen years!"

"So the training shouldn't take that long, then, should it?" Gerard shot back. "Will you take the job, or not?"

"Don't fret, Gerard; you know I will. The hardest part, though, will be trying to make that incompetent moron you have out there look good."

"Oh, don't worry, son. That's not part of the job. I'm offering you the position in an official capacity this time. Not like before."

Erik frowned in thought. "Then that means—"

"—You'll be replacing Debienne, out there in the outer office. Everyone will know who you are this time, Erik, and you'll actually be recognised for your work here as well as paid for it." Gerard paused a moment, giving Erik a chance to recover from the shock, before continuing. "So… knowing that, are you still willing to accept the job?"

Erik's gaze flashed from his father's benevolent expression, to Christine's shining eyes, and back again. Gerard stood up and offered him his hand. "Well?"

Erik nodded with a smile, standing up to take his father's hand. The handclasp turned into a great, back-thumping, laughing embrace that lasted several moments. Then he released his father and swept Christine into his arms, still laughing, and kissed her deeply.

"Glad you weren't that exuberant with me," his father said dryly, as the couple broke apart. "If you're all through, then we should get on with this. I must confess, I've been looking forward to it."

"To what?" Christine asked.

"To this," Gerard said mysteriously, as he went over and opened his office door. "M. Debienne!" he called.

"Yes, sir?" his secretary replied unctiously.

"I'd like you to meet my son, Erik Carrière, and his fiancée, Christine Daée. Erik is going to be your replacement."

"My replacement, monsieur?" Debienne asked pompously. It was apparent from his attitude that he didn't think _anyone_ could replace him.

"Yes, Debienne. Your replacement. You're sacked."

Shocked speechless, Debienne glanced from Gerard to Erik. "Your—your son?" He had never heard of Carrière's even _having_ a son before. "Wait a minute. _Sacked? Me?_"

"Yes, sacked. My son Erik will be taking your position. He's just recently arrived in Paris," Gerard told him. "So clear out your desk and get yourself and your things out of the office, there's a lad."

* * *

In the lull that followed Debienne's rather stormy (and entertaining) departure, Christine excused herself to go attend rehearsal. After she left, Erik remarked quietly to Gerard, "I guess I hadn't realised you were going to go public about our connection. I'm flattered." 

Gerard gave him a rather poignant smile and put his hand on Erik's shoulder. "I'm only sorry I didn't have the courage to do so before now. You deserved better, Erik. I hope I can make it up to you."

"I can think of a way," Erik said with a sly smile.

"Oh?"

"Would you be willing to stand up with me, when I marry Christine?"

Gerard straightened his shoulders. "Son, I would be honoured and proud."

* * *

_A.N. I know it's been an embarrassingly long time since my last update, but you'll all be pleased to know that this story is now finished. Next chapter is wedding stuff, and then the epilogue -- they're all written; I just have to get them a little more polished up before posting them. Many thanks to all of you patient people who have waited so long for me to finish this one. Hope you like it!_  



	29. A Climactic Evening

Chapter 29: A Climactic Evening 

The wedding was small and uneventful, attended only by the groom's father, the bride's childhood friend, and a very grateful police inspector and his wife. The bridegroom subsequently took everyone out for a wedding luncheon before he and his radiant bride returned to his house beneath the opera.

There had been some talk of where they should spend their first night together, as Erik told her the day before the wedding about his purchase of Philippe's flat. But for sentimental reasons, they both decided to spend their first few nights in the place that had been "home" for both of them for so long.

"I rather like the idea of having you all to myself," Erik told her with a shy smile. "And of no one else even knowing that we're there, or how to find us."

Christine liked the idea too.

So Erik and Christine Carrière returned to the opera in the late afternoon, just in time to see that evening's production of _La Traviata_ (for which Christine, being an ingenue when the part called for a more worldly and mature actress, had not been cast).

The performance was enjoyably heartrending, and then they were going to go out for a late supper when Christine stopped her new husband. "Erik, perhaps we could simply go home instead? I've rather had enough of being around people for the day."

So they returned and had dinner in Erik's old house. Christine was acting more and more nervous as the meal progressed, though, until Erik finally put down his fork. She met his calm, even gaze miserably.

"Shall we go and sing a bit?" Erik asked, thinking that might be a good way of breaking the ice that had formed between them over dinner.

Christine nodded gratefully, and followed him to the music room. She had difficulty singing her part, though; Erik had chosen the wedding-night song from Romeo and Juliet, and every line she sang only made her more nervous.

Erik finally stopped and stood up. "My love," he said simply, and extended his hand to his bride. "Come, let's go sit and talk about this." He led her into his sitting room and sank down on the divan, pulling her down to lean against him. He put his arms around her and pressed his lips gently to her temple.

"Talk to me," he ordered.

"It – it's nothing."

"Christine."

"I'm nervous," she blurted.

"About me?"

"About… us."

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked quietly. "Or repulsed by the thought of my face?" He braced himself for the answer.

She nearly stuttered in her haste to reassure him. "Oh, no, Erik! Of course not! That's the _last_ thing – I mean, how could you think so, after all this time? I'm sorry if I said _anything, ever_, to make you think I was afraid of you, or repulsed by you, or anything like that! I'm terribly sorry!"

"There's no need for apologies, love," he said. He flashed her a quick smile. "Now, then," he said. "If it's just the usual wedding-night jitters, then we can do something about it. Do you know anyone – do you have any women friends who could advise you about this?"

"Well, no," Christine said. "I do know a little… about what men and women do together, I mean. I've heard the _corps de ballet_ talking about it. They were mostly talking about Philippe, though," she added.

Erik made a low, scornful noise in his throat. "Well, as you haven't married Philippe, I'm not sure how much stock you can put in their chatter."

Christine giggled at his disgust, knowing how the two men played at disliking each other. "Yes, and I'm glad of it!" she said. Giving him a pert look, she added, "I wouldn't _want_ a man who's been with the entire corps de ballet!"

Erik snickered. "You're quite safe with me, then, my love; I've never 'been with' anyone before." He sobered and cocked an eye down at her. "You aren't the only one who's nervous about this," he admitted. "Probably more nervous than you, truth be known."

Christine, having become used to reading Erik's body language since it was impossible to see his facial expression, then noticed the uneasy set of his shoulders. "Erik, would you take your mask off?" she asked suddenly. "Please?"

Erik hesitated a long moment, as he always did, before he complied with her request… as he always did. He laid the mask on the side-table and looked back at Christine.

She stretched up against him and touched his mouth with hers. His arms tightened around her as he responded to the kiss (and his body responded to Christine's sliding up against him). The kisses grew more heated as Christine, suddenly desiring to taste her new husband, opened her mouth under his.

Oh, God, the feeling of her soft mouth clinging to his, the taste of her – it nearly proved his undoing. He backed off a little, staring down at her in awe. That she could see his naked face and still desire him continued to astound him.

She noted his surprise and one side of her mouth curled up in a mischievous smile. Having such power over him went a long way towards diminishing her nervousness!

"You took off your mask for me, Erik," she said. "What would you like me to take off for you?"

Erik smiled, the expression lightening up his gruesome face considerably. His grin was positively wicked. "Stockings, please, madame."

Christine blushed. "Naughty man," she teased. She shrugged and sat up to take her shoes off. Then, with one eye on Erik and one eye on what she was doing, she tugged her skirts up to her thighs and carefully unfastened her suspender snaps.

Erik swallowed hard at the sight of her shapely white thighs, revealed little by little as the stockings came off.

Then she looked back at him, smiling impishly at his dazed expression. She leaned up to kiss him again, and sat him lick his lips in anticipation. At the last minute, instead of kissing him, she turned aside to whisper in his ear, "Your turn, _maestro_." Then she leaned back, eyes dancing.

Erik, primed for a kiss but then denied, grabbed her by the back of the neck and hauled her back to him. His kiss was not as gentle as the last one, but just as satisfying. He reluctantly let her go. "Don't ever do that to me again," he grumbled. "Little vixen!"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Contrite, Christine covered his face with kisses. Erik closed his eyes in bliss. When she finished, she got close enough to his mouth so that he could feel her lips moving when she said, "But it's still your turn."

"Ah, yes," he said. He bent down and pushed off his shoes, and then cocked a ridged and blackened eyebrow at her.

"Not fair. You got to choose, so I should too."

"What is your desire, then, my lady?" Erik asked.

Was it her imagination, or did his voice seem to caress the word "desire"? Erik had a beautiful and seductive speaking voice; Christine had always loved just listening to him talk. When he'd begun singing along with her in her lessons, it had sometimes been all she could do not to throw herself at him when the song was over!

And now, hearing him ask her what she desired..! She saw him lean back, watching her with a lazy smile on his lips, as if he had forgotten it was there. She suddenly remembered the night before the masquerade, when she had seen him come back from his midnight swim with his white linen shirt clinging damply to his torso. "The shirt," she said, blushing furiously at the memory, yet wanting to see if he was as well-built as he had seemed that night.

He was. As Erik slowly undid button after button and revealed more and more of his chest and shoulders, Christine's mouth went dry. His shoulders were broad, his stomach flat, his chest muscular, with a thin coating of fine brown hairs. She had seen him shirtless before, but bloodied and covered with bandages, and only for a moment. This was far, far better.

"Oh!" she exclaimed in a whisper.

"I'm sorry – is there something wrong?" Erik asked, closing his shirt again and holding it together with one hand. He thought of something. "It's the scar from the gunshot wound, isn't it? I know it's not terribly attractive." He started to button his shirt again.

Christine reached out to stop him. "Oh, no," Christine said. "That's not it at all." Slowly she reached out and pulled his shirt open again, hand stroking up to push it down his shoulders. "It's just that – well, you're very handsome, Erik."

The tender expression in his sea-grey eyes was almost enough to make her forget the swollen, blackened horror that was his face. And his body really was nice to look at, she admitted. "May I – ?" she asked, reaching a tentative hand toward him but stopping short of contact.

"Of course," Erik replied quietly, taking her hand and pressing it to the bare skin over his heart. "I'm all healed up, and we are married now, my dear. That means that all you see is yours… if you want it. I am yours. Completely." As her hands travelled up across his chest and over his shoulders, stroking his skin as she learned the textures of him, he closed his eyes and murmured, "I always have been, you know."

"Just as I am yours now, too," she replied, leaning close to touch her lips to his shoulder. He gasped, and she drew back sharply. "I'm sorry! Was that wrong?"

"Not at all," he answered, taking a deep breath. "In fact, I've been wanting to do that to _you_ for quite some time now."

"Oh!"

"And it is your turn now, my dear," Erik smirked. His eager hands reached around behind her to the hooks of her wedding-dress. "And I think the dress, lovely as it is, cannot compare to the beauty it hides – and so, should be cast aside."

They had to stand up for Erik to reach the lower hooks, and Christine just leaned against him, her forehead tucked into the hollow below his chin.

"Ha!" he exclaimed in triumph, having finally finished undoing the last hook, and Christine smiled against his chest to hear him being so playful.

The dress came down and pooled on the floor, leaving her in her corset and shift. His attention was drawn to her shapely white shoulders, and he couldn't resist kissing her there in turn.

After that, the rest of the clothes came off easily, and neither one of them ended up having any cause to be nervous.


	30. The Real Denouement

Chapter 30: The Real 'Denouement' 

And so it came to be that Erik Carrière and his lovely young bride, Christine Daée Carrière became familiar faces (so to speak) around l'Opera Garnier. With Christine's voice being so angelic, she was wildly popular as Marguerite in Faust, and in every other role requiring a beautiful ingenue with such an amazing range and such a bell-like clarity of tone. Her husband soon became known as the manager's right-hand man, and no one was surprised when he ended up sliding neatly into the manager's position when his father retired.

He and his wife became quite close friends with the middle-aged police inspector Ledoux, and his charming wife Clemence. Christine looked up to the older lady as the mother she'd never had, while the Inspector always said that he owed "young Mr. Carriere" much more than his life – but he would never specify exactly what he owed him, or why.

The couple also maintained cordial ties with Philippe de Chagny, and were delighted for him when he finally found the woman he could remain faithful to. She was a young dancer named Meg, who had been cast for her skill on the stage rather than in the bedroom. She also had led Philippe a merry chase, being uninterested in him for several years until he had proved his worth to her satisfaction. Christine and Erik thought she was a fine match for him, and although he and Erik never actually said they were friends, they did seek each other out a great deal, to drink together and swap insults.

Alain Choletti ended up spending a good deal of time in prison, and when he got out he had gone bald, lost a lot of weight, and shaved off his formerly impressive moustache. He also discovered, much to his chagrin, that his slightly mad wife had begun a whole new line of work.

Carlotta loved it; she got to wear dramatic costumes just as she had at the opera, and she got to flirt and play the coquette to her heart's content. Her new workplace was not in a part of town that she had ever frequented before. (Her husband had, in his youth, but never during daylight hours.)

At night, though, the doorways in that part of town shone with a slightly sordid red glow that she felt complemented her hair and skin tone admirably. She couldn't quite figure out why that nasty little bald man with the strange accent wanted her to quit her job, and who did he think he was, anyway, her husband or something?

Gerard Carrière aged gracefully, gradually letting Erik shoulder more and more of the managerial burden until Gerard was ready to retire completely and enjoy his grandchildren.

Erik and Christine lived happily ever after. They also hosted, wrote, and performed some of the best operas that Paris had ever seen. They argued sometimes; they got angry at each other; they worried about budgets and wars; they took each other for granted from time to time – in short, they did all the things that every married couple does. But like all happy couples, they worked out their disagreements; they laughed and loved; they forgave each other; they did their best to raise their children even in the midst of the conflict around them.

And one day they brought their children to visit their grandfather, and together the three of them told René and Marie-Chantal all about the Phantom of the Opera.

René was the older one, dark-haired but with the sea-grey eyes of his father and grandfather. He was twelve when Gerard finally handed the reins over to Erik officially, though Erik had been doing most of the work for several years already. René definitely took after his mother in vocal performance; he sang well, and his parents fully expected him to be able to be put into the chorus in another few years after his voice finished changing.

His sister Marie-Chantal was only two years younger. She had also inherited the Carrière grey eyes, but had got her long, fine, blonde hair from her mother. She also sang well, but her true passion lay in painting and art. She was already one of the best set designers they had, and – trained by her father in the field of "magic," – enjoyed creating special effects as a hobby.

Neither one of them ever told anyone what their father's face really looked like – but neither one ever minded seeing it, either. And they faithfully kept the secret of their father's former life as a ghost, for the rest of their lives.

Gerard, having seen more happiness in his last ten years of life than he had ever expected to experience the day the Cholettis took over, finally felt that he could die happy. And years later, after a rich, full and fulfilling life, he did.

FIN

* * *

_Author's Note: Thank you again, everybody, for your encouragement, reviews, and for not losing faith in me after this story sat unattended for so embarrassingly long. I do hope you've all enjoyed it, and that there was enough fluff in it to suit the fluffy phans and enough plot to satisfy the thinking ones._

_The entire story as a whole is dedicated to my wonderful, lovely husband who supports my writing no matter what I write, is a terrific sounding-board, and comes up with the best plot ideas I've ever heard. My beloved Clever Lad, this one was for you (especially chapter 29!)!_

_ But Ripper can have the Red Death outfit if she wants it. Heck, Ripper can have anything she wants, after all the gorgeous illustrations she has done for this story. Everyone should check out her homepage on Deviantart; she has tons of illustrations for this story there. Enjoy!  
_


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